


Trust

by whichclothes



Series: Blindverse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (1/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 1 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day.

Edit:  Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**TRUST**

**One**

 

“Hey, sport. Time to call it a night.”

Spike blinked up at the bartender. “’M not drunk,” he growled.

“Maybe not, buddy, although a fifth of Jack is enough to knock bigger men than you out cold. But it’s closing time. Need me to call you a cab?”

Spike sighed. “Nah. Flat’s close by.” He swung off the stool and dug into his right front trouser pocket, where he kept the twenties. He pulled one out and set it on the counter as a tip. The bartender had kept the booze flowing steadily all evening and hadn’t buzzed around him with useless conversation. Spike would probably come back the next night. Probably keep coming back until all his pockets were empty.

He limped across the floor, happy he wouldn’t see whether there were faces turned toward him with pity or disgust, and stepped outside, into the cool air that smelled of car exhaust and eucalyptus and salt.

He counted his steps until he reached the corner, then turned right and counted again. He’d crossed three streets when the bulk of his building loomed in front of him. His boots echoed in the piss-scented lobby, and he went through the narrow door and down the steps, and then, finally, into his flat. It was really just a single room with a fridge and sink and tiny cooker in one corner, a ratty sofa that opened into a bed, a pair of mismatched chairs and a splintery little table. It smelled of damp and mice. The shower and loo, the latter of which he didn’t need anyhow, were down the hall, shared with two other residents. He’d stayed in worse, though. Besides, Blue had told him this place was paid up for a few months.

Spike carefully locked the door behind him, then, not bothering to turn on the lights, walked over to the fridge. He pulled out a packet of blood and drank it cold. He resisted the urge to open the freezer and count the remaining packages there. He knew exactly how many there were: thirty-eight. Enough to last a bit over a month, if he kept himself lean.

With his belly more or less full, Spike shucked off his jacket and hung it in the small cupboard. He missed his duster. He knew it was purely psychological, but nothing else seemed to warm him properly. He toed off his shoes—just cheap trainers, not his beloved Docs—and slid out of his jeans and tee. He left the clothing on one of the chairs.

He’d left the sofa open, and now he collapsed onto it and wrapped the blankets tightly around himself like a cocoon. And then, because the alcohol wasn’t enough to dim the memories—no amount of alcohol could ever be enough—he buried his face in his pillow and he sobbed until he fell asleep.

 

***

 

_Claws or teeth or blades. He’s not certain which. Perhaps it’s all three. It doesn’t particularly matter in any case—sharp is sharp, and good enough to split open his face and chest and belly, to mangle the bones and muscles of his legs. Over his own screams he hears Charlie-boy struggling in vain to breathe through punctured lungs, more and more blood bubbling out with each exhalation. Just behind him, he hears Angel bellow, and then the sound is abruptly cut off and the scent of ancient dust curls into Spike’s nostrils. But there is no time to grieve. He waits for the killing blow, the shard of wood through his heart or the sword slicing through his neck, but instead there’s a tremendous explosion, and now he’s deaf as well as blind, and it’s all too much, too much._

 

***

 

“Drinking like this ain’t doing your liver no good, buddy.”

Spike tipped the glass to his mouth and took a long swallow. “My liver is the least of my worries, mate.”

“Hey, it’s your funeral,” the bartender said, and probably didn’t understand why Spike laughed so loudly.

Spike emptied the glass and then toyed with it a bit, spinning it slowly on the wooden bar. He was trying to pace himself, to stretch his drinking money out a while longer. He could have done better just buying a few bottles at a liquor store and taking them back to his flat, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being cooped up within those four walls all the time. At least this way he got out, even exchanged a few words with someone. If he timed it right, he could make the dosh last as long as the blood. And after…well, he wouldn’t think of that.

His depressing reverie was broken as he realized someone was watching him. He had that creepy-crawly feeling on the back of his neck, and it was disconcerting. He was meant to be a predator, not prey. He swiveled around on his stool and squinted into the darkness, but of course he saw nothing except a few vague blurs. One of them was likely a neon light advertising some brand of beer. The rest, he had no idea. He tried to look menacing, but that was hard to do without being able to focus on a target, and he finally gave it up and called to the bartender for a refill.

On his way home, he shuffled slowly down the sidewalk. Every movement he made seemed to resound off the buildings and pavement. All signs of life—at this time of night, mostly car engines—were so far away they seemed like dreams or hallucinations. He could almost imagine he was the only being left on the planet. If things went on as they had, perhaps someday he would be.

But then he heard a second pair of footsteps, faster than his own, coming up behind him. His heart would have raced if it could have. Instead, he backed up against the nearest building, the cold brick comforting behind him, and waited.

The feet came closer. Spike inhaled deeply, trying to identify the person who was approaching. He caught the scent of cigarettes and scotch and leather, and another, a dry-paper and dust odor that he identified just as the footsteps stopped directly in front of him and a sharp wooden point pierced a half-inch or so into his chest.

“Oi! Didn’t have to ruin the shirt, mate.” He only owned two. Two shirts, one pair of jeans, one pair of trainers and a wool coat.

The stake pushed in just a bit more, and Spike tried not to squirm. “What are _you_ doinghere?” demanded a familiar voice. Male. English.

“Was just on my way home. And you? This isn’t exactly your neck of the woods, Rupert.”

The stake withdrew from his flesh, but Spike could still feel it brushing against the edge of his skin. He was shaking, he realized, and he tried to stop and couldn’t.

There was a long silence. Giles’s heartbeat was strong and steady. He clearly wasn’t afraid, but Spike had no way to judge what emotions the man was feeling. Finally, tired of the scrutiny, he said, “Well, this has been a lovely reunion and all, but I reckon I‘ll just toddle back to my flat now, and you can go back to watching things.”

“What are you up to, Spike?” Ah, anger, then, by the sound of it. Mixed with a healthy splash of contempt.

Spike sighed. “’M not up to anything. Souled now, remember? Haven’t eaten anyone in ages. Look, I’ve been minding my own business and keeping to myself. But if it gets your knickers in such a knot just to have me in the city limits, I’ll move on, all right?” He actually had no idea how he would manage to do such a thing, but it was the only thing he could think of that might mollify Giles. It was better than begging, anyhow.

Giles wrapped his fist around Spike’s jacket collar and, stake still pressed to Spike’s breast, dragged him a few feet down the pavement. It was a bit brighter here, and Spike realized that Giles must have brought him under a streetlamp for a better look.

Giles let go of Spike’s collar and used that hand to grip Spike’s chin, to force his face this way and that. “You didn’t get like this from keeping to yourself,” he spat.

Spike jerked his head away. “No, I didn’t. But this happened some time ago, and as you can see, Watcher, I’m in no condition to cause trouble.”

“Some time ago? I’m not stupid, Spike. This happened within the last day or two, or else the wounds would be healed by now.”

Now Spike turned his face away completely and set his jaw. “Turns out there are exceptions to the vamp healing rule,” he said.

There was another long silence, and then, at last, Giles lowered the stake. “Where’s your flat, Spike? I should like to discuss this.”

Neither of them said another word as they walked the last two blocks to Spike’s building, and at least Spike was spared the disgusted expression he was certain Giles had when he saw Spike’s flat. Spike gestured towards one of the chairs. “I don’t have any booze. I can make us a cuppa, though.”

“That…that would be fine.”

After a century and a half, putting on the kettle didn’t take good vision. Spike only had two mugs, and he took them out of the cupboard, rinsed them under the tap, and set them down. “Only have it in bags. Sorry. Don’t have a proper pot.” He felt like a berk for apologizing over it, but couldn’t help it.

“That’s all right.”

Spike tried to keep his mind blank as he waited for the water to boil. He’d nearly learnt not to wonder about what might happen, mostly because the reality was always worse than whatever he imagined. When the kettle whistled, he filled the mugs, plopped in the teabags, and carried them over towards where he could hear Giles’s breathing and heartbeat. He held one of the cups out in the man’s general direction, and Giles took it.

“Are you blind, Spike?”

“I’m—yeah. Mostly.”

“Good Lord,” Giles whispered.

Spike could feel the heavy weight of the gaze upon him. God, he didn’t want pity from the Watcher, of all people! He felt around with his foot until he found the table, then set the mug on it and spread his arms wide. “Take a good look and get it over with, Watcher. Want to see the rest of me? Not any prettier than my face, but maybe it’ll give you your jollies to see old Spike hacked up.”

“Oh, do stop with the melodrama. What happened?”

Spike collapsed heavily onto the other chair. He was so tired all the time now, and weak. He took a sip of his scalding tea and then balanced the mug on his thigh, enjoying the way the heat seeped through. “Angel was fighting a war against a law firm.”

“Yes, I know about that. I thought you’d all been killed.”

“We were. Or perhaps—I don’t know. I was hurt. And then…then I was someplace else for a time.” Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked as he said it. “And then I was here, in this flat. Illyria was with me. You know about her as well?”

“The Old One who was taken from the Deeper Well and resurrected.”

“Yeah. She gave me some money and some clothing, filled the fridge, and then left. Said something about being bored with this dimension.”

“When was this?” Giles asked.

“Nearly three months ago.”

“And since then?”

Spike shrugged. “I drink. I sleep. I’ve a radio,” he pointed at the bedside, “and I listen to that.”

“You haven’t made any attempts to contact Buffy?”

“No,” Spike said with a shudder. “Don’t want her to see me like—No. Don’t even know where she is and wouldn’t have any way to find her. Oh, God—don’t tell her you saw me!”

There was a long, cold silence. “Buffy and I are…not in communication.”

Huh. Spike knew things had been a bit dodgy between them before he burnt under Sunnyhell, but he wondered what had finally estranged them. What he asked, though, was, “And what are you doing here, then? Expected you’d be back in Old Blighty by now.”

“I was. But there were reports of demonic activity here and I’ve been looking into them.”

“Lovely. Look, Watcher. It must be clear by now that I’m not doing anything that might trouble the Council, so you can finish your Assam and then go away and leave me in peace.”

Giles stood and walked the few feet between them, so that he was towering over Spike. Spike tried his best not to cower, but he felt so bloody small and vulnerable. “I could just stake you now and remove the possibility that you’ll cause problems later.”

“Don’t,” Spike whispered. “Please, Rupert.” The begging tasted bitter, but he’d get down on his sodding knees and lick Giles’s boots if it saved him from being dusted and, quite possibly, being sent back _there_. And then he was mortified when he started to cry, tears running down his face from rage and fear and humiliation and just bleeding exhaustion. He hid his mangled face in his hands and tried to muffle his sobs.

Giles waited until Spike’s shoulders stopped shaking. “What will you do when your money’s gone and you’re out of blood?”

“Dunno,” Spike said miserably.  He sniffled. “No worries, I won’t hunt. Even if the soul wasn’t stuck on tight, I couldn’t catch a gimpy toddler.”

“If I hear that you’ve been up to something—“

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll stake me. Awfully Freudian, that image.”

Giles grabbed the front of Spike’s t-shirt and used it to haul him to his feet. “Oi!” Spike protested, trying to keep his footing. “My shirt!”

Giles gave quite a credible growl and stuck his face very close to Spike’s. Spike saw it as a vague, beige blur with shiny bits where the Watcher’s specs were. “I’m in no mood for nonsense. You won’t get a second chance.” He shoved Spike backwards, sending him sprawling onto the chair. “Thanks for the tea.”

After he was gone, Spike remained slumped in his seat, cradling the cooling mug in his hands.

 

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/129241.html)

 


	2.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (2/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 2 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!  
   
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Two**

 

Perhaps if he just stayed in bed, hiding under the blankets, it would all go away. He snorted at himself. Here he was, a 150-year-old demon, acting like a six-year-old child. But if he were that child, his mum would be there with her warm, thin hands, and she’d push the hair back from his face and kiss his brow and tell him that everything was going to be all right.

Everything was not going to be all right.

He was out of blood and he was out of money. He’d had nothing to eat for three days and hunger gnawed at him like a wolf. He had bloody few options remaining. He could stay here and starve into a coma, until his landlady found him and mistook him for a corpse, and everything else that would happen after that was bad news. He could wander the streets, begging blindly for handouts, but who was there to give him charity in the dark of night? And even if he came upon some money somehow, how would he find a butchers open so late, willing to sell him some cow or pig blood? He could take a page from his grandsire’s old books and feed off vermin, but that would only prolong the inevitable. In a couple weeks, his rent would be due, and then he’d have nowhere to hide from the sun. He could skulk around the edges of the city, waiting to become prey to something bigger and stronger. He could walk out and meet the dawn, and perhaps return to that place.

No, everything was never going to be all right.

He remembered the envy he’d once felt, watching the Slayer and her crew, knowing that they had each other’s backs. He’d never been able to depend on anyone like that, not even Dru.

 He thought about what a balm a few kind words would be to his aching soul right now, and he tried to find solace in imagining those words falling from the lips of people he’d once known, but it didn’t work. All he could hear were insults and censure. He wrapped the pillow over his ears, as if that would do any good, and curled up tight and rocked himself. Trying to find a comforting rhythm. Like a baby, he suckled on his fist, partly because he hoped it might fool his belly into thinking he’d had a feed, and partly just because it was soothing.

He was just at the threshold between wakefulness and sleep when someone pounded on his door. “What?” he called.

But instead of an answer, there was a kick and a bang, and the sound of the cheap locks giving. Spike leapt out of his bed and tumbled backwards until the wall was behind him. When he scented the air to determine who or what had burst in on him, the smell was familiar. “What do you want?” he demanded. “I haven’t done anything.”

Footsteps approached, and he realized, belatedly, that he was still nude, and the intruder was now taking in the full devastation to his body. A moment later, Spike winced when a pile of fabric hit his torso and then fell to his feet.

“Get dressed,” Giles said. “I need your assistance.”

 

***

 

It was a strange thing. Although Giles had threatened him many times over the years and had once been complicit in his near-staking, and although Spike was quite sure Giles was fully capable of dusting him himself, Spike felt safer at the man’s side than he had since he’d entered that alley with Angel. At least Giles probably wouldn’t let him wander about, lost, until the sunrise got him, and he’d always been a handy enough fighter, for a human.

“Do hurry up,” Giles said, waiting for Spike to catch up. “I haven’t all night.”

“’M not dawdling to annoy you, Rupert,” Spike snarled. “My hips weren’t set properly last time they mended. Gets in the way of walking.” And hurts like bloody hell with every step, he could have added.

Giles huffed impatiently, but said nothing else. When they reached the next block, he steered Spike toward, and then inside of, a parked car. Into the left-hand seat, Spike couldn’t help but notice. “What are you driving now, Watcher? It’s not another bloody Citroen, I can tell that much.”

“It’s an Aston Martin,” Giles said, slipping into the other seat. “A ’58 DB4.”

“Nice. You’ve moved up in the world.”

Giles humphed and pulled away from the curb. The quick blurs of light as they drove only made Spike dizzy, so he closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat. “So you want to explain how a blind, crippled vampire is of use to you, Rupert?”

“I’ll explain when we get there.”

Spike shrugged. He wasn’t in any particular hurry.

The car jerked and swerved down the road, and Spike wondered how much Giles had had to drink. He smelled like a distillery. They’d been going for some time when Giles spoke again. “How long since you’ve fed?”

“Too long.”

They were silent again for ten minutes or so, until Giles stopped the car and turned off the engine. “This is it?” Spike asked.

“Just come with me.”

Spike followed Giles across what felt like slightly crumbling pavement. There was the click of a key in a lock and the squeal of a metal door, and then they were entering a space that was big enough that every sound echoed loudly. It smelled of oil and rusted metal and rot. An old factory, Spike guessed. He’d squatted in them often enough over the years. As they walked across the cement floor, Spike tripped over something hard and knee-high, and he would have fallen if Giles hadn’t grabbed his arm. “This way,” Giles snapped, not letting go, just hauling Spike along with him.

When they stopped, Spike realized there was someone else there with them. Someone whose heart was racing and who reeked of urine and fear. And blood. Spike licked his lips. The mystery person made a muffled sound; he must have been gagged.

“Spike, this man works for a witch called Talia Anissina. I should very much like to know where she is.”

“Never heard of her, mate.”

“No, I hadn’t expected you had. Our friend here, however, knows very well where she can be found. He is reluctant to share that information.”

Oh. “Look, Rupert, torture is not my forte. Never had the patience for it. Now, Angelus—“

“Yes. I’m quite aware of what Angelus was capable of, but he’s dust, and that’s neither here nor there. I can be quite persuasive myself, in any case.”

“Teach you that at Watcher school, did they? Information Extraction 101?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, they did. And I had quite a knack for it. But again, that’s immaterial. Torture will not produce Anissina’s whereabouts. She’s placed a spell on him, you see. He can’t divulge the information I need, no matter how badly he wants to.”

“Well, that’s too bad, but you know I’ve never much fancied mojo. I’ve no idea how to break that spell.”

“Actually, it can only be undone by the person who casts it. It’s quite a good one.”

Spike wished the arsehole would just come out with what he wanted already. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it, Rupert. ‘M not exactly the best choice as tracker nowadays, am I?”

Giles made an equivocal little noise. “The spell ends when this man dies,” he said.

“Yeah, but dead men tell no ta—Oh.” The realization hit him like a speeding lorry. “You want me to turn him.”

“Precisely,” Giles replied, and the man’s desperate noises became more strident.

Spike licked his lips again. Christ, what had happened to this white hat? “I don’t do that anymore. Haven’t for ages,” he said quietly.

“Don’t be alarmed. I won’t stake you for it, not this time.”

Spike backed up a step. “How generous of you. But your threats aren’t the only thing keeping me from killing, Watcher.”

Giles’s voice went low and angry. “Talia Anissina has used her witchcraft to bind a nest of Gh’kar demons to her. She’s using them to murder people, to take their hearts. I believe she’s attempting to perform a ritual that will give her considerable power. They’ve killed a dozen people already, and a great many more will die if she’s successful.”

Lovely. Apocalypse du jour. “You people are a resourceful lot. Surely you can dig her up some other way than this.”

“Eventually, yes,” Giles hissed. “But time is very much of the essence.”

“Giles, I—“

“Stop being difficult! You could use a good meal anyhow, and I need this information.”

“And after you get it?”

“I’ll stake him, of course.”

More garbled noises from the victim in question, and Spike took another step back. The scent of blood was suddenly very strong.

“What if I refuse?”

“He’s dead anyway, and you’ll have condemned perhaps thousands more. But you’re free to walk out of here, Spike. Best of luck finding your way back to your flat. I wonder how much longer you can go hungry before you lose consciousness.”

“Bastard!”

Spike wanted to pace angrily. No, he wanted to storm out and never speak to the Watcher again. But both were near impossibilities in his condition. He’d only stumble over something and crack his head open, like as not. He felt trapped, and he howled in fury and impotence.

Giles seemed unperturbed. He simply waited until Spike had calmed down, and then he said, “He’s tied up right in front of you. He’s quite immobilized.”

Something broke inside Spike. He couldn’t fight any longer. He wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. Instead, he shifted to his demon face.

The bound man screamed, a sound that became even louder when Giles removed the gag. “Oh, God, please, please don’t. Please don’t do this to me.” The man’s pleas devolved into incoherent sobs.

Spike closed the space between them and put his hands out until they touched the man’s trembling body. He seemed to be suspended by his arms. He tried unsuccessfully to jerk away as Spike traced his hands over the man’s shoulders. The sound of his heartbeat was overwhelmingly loud. “I’m sorry,” Spike said into his ear. And then he bit.

Oh, Christ. He hadn’t done this in so long. There had been that time in Sunnyhell, when the First was pulling his strings, but he couldn’t recall killing those people very well. The last clear memory he had of draining a human was years ago, just before those soldier wankers had stuck their greasy fingers into his cranium. He’d almost forgotten how brilliant it felt to sink his fangs into warm flesh; for hot, _fresh_ blood to spurt into his mouth with each thump of a failing heart, flooding his palate with the flavor of life and slipping down his throat more sweetly than any nectar.

Spike held the man tightly in a grim embrace, and the rest of the world went away as he fed.

Went away, that is, until his shoulders were pulled roughly away, breaking his contact with the man’s neck. Spike spun around and growled ferally at whatever had interrupted his meal, and then he regained enough of himself to remember what he was meant to be doing. He tore viciously into his own wrist and pressed it to the man’s mouth. He heard the man’s involuntary swallow, felt the small draw on his own veins, and he bit again, this time tearing the man’s carotid into shreds.

Spike didn’t stop drinking until he’d taken every drop from the man’s still corpse. He backed away and let his face melt back to human, then wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. He was panting heavily and his stomach felt wonderfully full.

“That’s that, then,” he said. “Leave him to bake for a night or two.”

Giles came closer to him, and Spike half expected the Watcher to stake him anyway, now that his usefulness was at an end. “I’ll take you back to your flat,” Giles said, his voice slightly subdued.

Spike nodded and trailed behind him, managing not to trip over anything as they made their way to the car. “I’d thought it was only vampires you’d kill when it was expedient,” Spike said as they drove away. “Guess I’m not so special after all.”

“He was no innocent.”

Spike laughed bitterly. “Who is? Out of all the thousands I’ve killed, none but the children were blameless. Doesn’t mean they deserved what I did to them.”

“This one did,” Giles replied shortly.

With his stomach full, Spike could almost have fallen asleep as Giles drove him home. He did doze a bit, his head bouncing against the window, and straightened when Giles pulled to the curb.

“Thank you for your help,” Giles said.

“Didn’t do it as a favor to you.”

“I know.”

Spike opened the door and inhaled, taking in the familiar scents of his own block. He could just barely make out the gray bulk of his building. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of the car; his hips protested and he had to muffle a grunt of pain. But he made it to his feet and reached for the door.

“Spike—“

“What?”

Giles paused. “Nothing. Good night.”

Spike slammed the door shut and listened to the Aston Martin drive off.

 

***

 

_When he comes to after the battle, his first assumption is that he is, once again, dead. Perhaps the assumption is correct. But his body is in agony and the cold is so bitter he’s amazed he isn’t frozen solid. He’s naked and he sees nothing but white light._

_He is never certain whether Illyria is a fellow captive in this place or his captor. He is rarely capable of speech, so he cannot ask. What he knows is pain, and her presence._

_He is penetrated in every orifice and where no orifice had previously existed. He is twisted and bent, disassembled and reassembled, crushed and burned and shaken and split. There are brief respites when the tortures ebb just enough for him to become fully conscious and terrified of what is to come next._

_At first, he tries to crawl away, but the smooth, tile-like surface beneath him never varies, and he’s never able to escape the torment. Perhaps he’s only crawling in circles. Eventually he gives up and, to the extent he’s able, curls into a tight ball._

_He’s never once able to feed._

_The suffering lasts for millennia. There is never a moment when he doesn’t hurt, never a crumb of comfort._

 

***

 

The hearty meal had only postponed the inevitable. He was going to be very hungry again in a few days. For now, though, it was pleasant to feel the slight roundness of his stomach. He had a shower down the hall and washed out his clothing as well as he was able. He could smell blood on it, and he wasn’t sure how badly stained it had become.

Back in his own room, he hung up his clothes to dry and ran a comb through his hair. It had grown very long when he was…gone…and after Blue had left, he’d found a knife and hacked it as short as possible. It felt like an unruly mess of curls and he was certain it looked horrible, but then so did the rest of him, and who bloody cared?

He turned on his radio and fiddled with the dial until he found something not too objectionable. He missed watching the telly a little, but even more, he missed reading. He wished he had a computer or iPod or something, some way to listen to recorded books. He laughed at himself—stupid git. As if not reading Neil Gaiman’s latest were his biggest problem.

As always, it was chilly in his flat. So even though he knew it did him no good—he had no body heat to insulate—he wrapped himself in his blankets and huddled on the thin mattress and waited for sleep and the latest nightmare installment.

 

[Chapter 3](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/129558.html)

 


	3.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (3/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 3 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Three**

 

“What’s wrong?”

Spike screamed and cowered against the couch cushions. He wouldn’t let them take him back. They couldn’t.

“Spike, it’s all right, it’s only me. You were dreaming.” A hand touched his shoulder, big and warm, and Spike took a deep, whooping breath and tried to calm himself.

“Wha—what….” he stuttered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. You were yelling, and I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought. So I came in. Your locks are still broken.” The last was said a trifle apologetically.

Spike managed to shake the last dregs of sleep from his brain. He relaxed his muscles, loosening from his tight, protective hunch, and slithered back under the blankets. “Need me to kill someone again? The last one didn’t take?”

“It took. I obtained the information I needed. Anissina is…no longer a threat.”

“Well, that’s just lovely. Ta for the update, Rupert. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I—“

“You'll what, Spike? You’ll curl up and wait to dust?”

Spike leapt out of bed, furious. “Look at me! Bloody _look_ at me!” He held his arms up high. “There’s nothing left. I’ve burned, I’ve fought, I’ve died more times than a sodding cat. I wasn’t wanted when I was whole, and now there’s nothing left of me, nothing I’m good for except drinking. I can’t—“ His voice broke and he couldn’t go on. Still naked, he limped over to the sink and leaned his belly against it, clenching his jaw, waiting for Giles to just go away.

But Giles didn’t. “Spike, plenty of people have full lives with worse handicaps than yours. I’m certain—“

Spike whirled around, vampire face to the fore. “I’m not bloody _people_! I’m a fucking demon and there’s no ADA for me, no Society for the Care of Crippled Vampires.”

There was a very long pause, during which he could hear Giles breathing, the muffled footsteps of the upstairs neighbors, the rumble of cars driving by. Pipes gurgled and the fluorescent light he never bothered to use buzzed faintly. A train sounded its horn, somewhere far away.

Finally, very quietly, Giles said, “I’m returning to England.”

“Have a nice trip,” Spike replied and turned away again.

“I want you to come with me.”

“You—what?” Perhaps now his hearing was going as well.

“Come with me. I’ve a flat in London, a few blocks from Headquarters. I’ve a spare room you could have. It’s a good sight better than this place. We’d just need to cover the window.”

Spike shook his head as if that might help clear it. “Why?” he demanded.

“Because I can make sure you’re fed properly. Perhaps we can even improve your…condition a bit. We can at least reset your bones, and that would help. You won’t be in danger of being thrown out when the rent comes due.”

Spike refused to believe any of it. There was no such thing as hope. “I meant, why would you do this for me? ‘M not even worth being your bum boy.”

Giles sighed loudly. “You make things more difficult than they have to be, you know. I merely feel that…I owe you a debt.”

“For turning the witch’s minion?”

“That, and sacrificing yourself on the Hellmouth, and…. You’ve done some truly unforgivable things, Spike. But then so have I, soul and all.” Flabbergasted, Spike turned around once more to listen. He badly wished he could see the man’s face. But he heard a small squeak, and he realized Giles was polishing the lens of his specs. Spike couldn’t help but smile a tiny bit at that.

“I’ve been thinking about this since we spoke the other day. I’ve been thinking…well, thinking about you. You said you don’t know much about magic. But you do know a great deal about demons, and I’d wager you have knowledge that hasn’t made its way into any of the Council’s books. There are even things about your own history that are missing from the Diaries, and I’d like to learn more about them. You could be of real value, Spike. Besides, I’d prefer to have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

Spike’s rollercoaster of emotions was on incredulity now. “You want me to be some sort of test subject for those Council tossers?”

“You don’t have to go anywhere near the Council. Truthfully, I rarely do myself, except to use the library. I find the Council…restricting.”

Spike walked away from the sink, passing close by Giles, and collapsed back onto his bed. He pulled the blankets over his lap and wished he had a cigarette or some whiskey. Preferably both.

“There’s nothing for you here, Spike. What have you possibly got to lose?”

“This isn’t some kind of trick? You’re not going to lure me into a room filled with crosses, are you?”

“If I wanted to harm you would I need to do anything that elaborate?”

Spike drooped. “No. I expect not.”

“Be sensible.”

Spike wondered when all the choices available to him had become shite. He sighed. “So how the bloody hell do you mean to get me to England?”

 

***

 

In the past, Spike had seen the adverts for British Airways first class. Looked lovely, with a bed with 400-count linens, a television with over 100 movies, and a crew ready to bring you a steady stream of drinks.

Spike was not flying first class.

He was, in fact, dressed in a ridiculous burial suit, sealed inside a metal casket, and shoved into the cargo hold. There was no oxygen inside the casket, and, although he didn’t need to breathe, it was a longstanding habit that was hard to break. Tacked to the outside of the casket, he knew, were the dozens of papers that Giles had secured from Christ knew where, all attesting that William Pratt, deceased, a British national, had died of natural causes and was being transported home for burial. At least some of that was true.

And at least he wasn’t hungry. Giles visited Safeway before they left and brought Spike a half gallon of cow’s blood, which Spike had warmed on his cooker before guzzling happily. Giles had also brought him scissors because no mortician would ever have let a cadaver go with its hair in such disarray as Spike’s had been. Of course, a good mortician might also have attempted to camouflage the scars on the corpse’s face, but there wasn’t much Giles and Spike could do about that.

Spike got as comfortable as he could and then, as the wheels bumped off the runway and then tucked into the jet’s belly, he silently bid North America adieu.

 

***

 

_He doesn’t immediately realize that he is somewhere different. He assumes, at first, that it’s simply a new torture inflicted on him when the old ones lost their novelty. But eventually it occurs to him that he is on a soft surface, and he is almost warm, and the myriad shrieking agonies of his body have dulled to a sickening ache._

_And he is drinking, he realizes. Human blood, cold but good, and he reaches for the food like a baby for a bottle, swallowing, swallowing, reveling for just one moment in the glory of being fed._

_Things are blurry. Not just his vision, but time and place. He hears things like footsteps or a voice, and he’s not sure whether they’re real or imagined. Whether he’s hearing them now or remembering them from before._

_Eventually, he regains enough of himself to assess his situation. He’s in a bed—not a very comfortable one, but a bed—and there’s a pillow under his head and blankets pulled to his chest. His eyes are open but he can see very little. His other senses seem all right. His hands wander across his face and body. Deep, parallel lines across his face; a snarl of furrowed scars on his chest and abdomen and legs. His bones sing in pain, and they feel wrong, a puzzle put together incorrectly, with bumps and jags where there should be none. And between his legs…his hand shies away from the truth, but is then drawn back. _

_Something had cut or perhaps even bitten him in the groin. His cock is scarred but whole. His bollocks…well, he hasn’t been completely gelded, at least. His scrotum feels unfamiliar and clearly contains only one testicle._

_ Well, he tells himself, not like he’ll be getting a leg over in this condition anyhow._

_He cries often. He never used to cry, did he?_

 

***

 

It was his first time on English soil in decades, but he spent the journey stuck in his coffin and shoved in the back of a lorry. Just as well, as it was mid-day, but he was anxious to get out of confinement. The lorry jolted along maddeningly slowly, seemingly spending more time idling than actually moving. At last, though, the casket was lifted and carried, then plopped down by bearers who were clearly of the impression that the occupant was past caring about bumps and bruises. A few minutes after that and the latches clicked open. Fresh air flooded him and he took a deep and grateful breath.

Giles had said that having the casket delivered to his flat would be awkward, as his flat was up two flights of stairs, and difficult to explain. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing one normally had in one’s home. So Spike had reluctantly agreed to be taken to Council Headquarters instead. He wasn’t surprised, then, when his nostrils were filled with the scent of several humans in tweed and he heard a round of gasps. All he could see, though, were a half dozen or so pale faces hovering over him like moons.

“Step back, step back,” Giles said, and Spike was glad to hear his irritated voice. “He’s just spent nearly a day in there. Give him a moment to recover.”

“Ta,” Spike said. Feeling like he was re-enacting a scene in a bad horror movie, he sat up and squinted around. He thought he was in a large foyer of some kind. The Watchers’ footsteps sounded on hard tile or marble, a warm fire burned off to one side, and he could make out what seemed to be a wide stairway. He had some difficulty climbing out of the coffin—his twisted joints had stiffened badly—but Giles didn’t move to help him, and he was thankful for that. He stood on his slightly wobbly legs, feeling extremely uncomfortable to be in the center of this small crowd. It was a Sunday, at least, and there were fewer of them about than there might have been.

“William the Bloody!” a woman murmured, and Spike tensed.

In a loud, rather schoolmasterish voice, Giles said, “This is Spike. As you are all aware, he possesses a soul and he had proven himself a champion for our cause.”

“This is a vampire, Rupert! It has no place here, of all places. It should be staked at once.” The speaker sounded like an older man, with a thin, querulous voice. Spike had to restrain himself from flashing his fangs.

“He is here under my protection. No one shall harm him. Is that understood?”

The response was low muttering and grumbling, but nobody challenged Giles’s statements. Spike couldn’t blame them. Giles sounded frightening.

Someone came up very close to Spike and he flinched before he realized it was Giles. “McCreary, have this thing taken away. I’m sure there’s room for it in storage. Spike, please. Will you come with me to my office? We’ve several hours yet before sunset.”

“Yeah, all right.” Spike was relieved to be able to escape the staring eyes.

Spike followed Giles’s blurry figure up the steps, down a long corridor, and then to a room that smelled like Giles.  Spike hovered uncertainly just inside the door, which Giles shut. “There’s a chair to your left if you’d like to sit,” Giles said. Spike shuffled carefully across a thick rug until his foot hit the chair. It was leather, worn and wide and comfortable. Spike slumped back in it, suddenly completely exhausted.

Giles opened a window. Cool air came in, bringing with it the smells of rain and car exhaust. The smell of London, which somehow had managed not to change very much after all these years. Spike fancied he could almost pick up the scent of the Thames itself.

Giles moved about the room. “Would you care for some Chivas Regal?” he asked. “And a cigarette as well?”

“Oh, Christ, yeah,” Spike moaned. He still wasn’t entirely certain this wasn’t all some sort of elaborate trick, but if being tricked involved decent whiskey and a fag, he was all for it.

Giles handed Spike a glass tumbler. There was the click of a lighter and the smell of burning tobacco, and then Giles gave him a cigarette and a lighter as well. “There’s an ashtray on the table to your right. Do be careful. This place is all papers and dry wood.”

“’M flammable as well, Watcher. I’ll be careful.” He lit his cigarette and inhaled happily, then chased the smoke with a healthy slug of the whiskey.

“I’ve had our things taken directly to my flat,” Giles said, and Spike snorted. Aside from the awful suit he was wearing, Spike’s “things” consisted of his pitiful pile of clothing and a comb. “I’ve some matters to attend to here. I’d suggest you stay put until I return.”

“Fine. Where’s the whiskey and fags?”

Giles sighed. “On my desk.”

“And the window? I don’t fancy being incinerated today.”

“It faces north and it’s quite cloudy today. You’ll be fine. Please try not to ruin anything while I’m gone.”

“’M a vampire, Rupert, not a four-year-old. I won’t damage your precious what-have-yous.”

Giles hmphed skeptically, stubbed out his cigarette, and left.

 

***

 

It was a long afternoon. It was not that his flat had been posh, by any means, but at least he’d known where everything was, and felt relatively safe. He’d had his radio and had not had the skin-crawling awareness of Watchers skulking about.

Here, he moved cautiously about, trying to get some sense of what Rupert kept in his office. Books, mostly, old ones, by the smell. A few mystical knickknacks that made his nose tickle, and from which he kept a healthy distance. Something in a frame, a photo, perhaps, but he couldn’t make out what it was. A dusty wooden chest with a few weapons tucked inside. Some parchment scrolls, a thick pile of papers, and, somewhat to Spike’s surprise, a computer.

Having conducted his inventory, Spike spent most of the rest of the day standing in front of the window, smoking and drinking, listening to the city pass him by. He startled slightly when the door opened, but relaxed when he heard Giles’s familiar exasperated noise. “You’ve finished off the scotch and cigarettes, I see.”

“Did you expect otherwise?”

“No, not really.” He plunked something heavy down on the desk and shuffled a few papers. “The sun’s nearly set. Shall we go?”

They didn’t meet up with anyone as they left the building. Outside it was sprinkling lightly and people were walking quickly by. Giles popped open an umbrella. “If you take my elbow I shall try to help you avoid collisions.”

Spike did, feeling more than ever like an invalid. He must be quite a sight, he thought, with his poncy suit and mangled face, clutching at the taller man’s arm. He wondered what the passersby made of him. He didn’t mind curiosity, but he loathed the idea of being pitied. Humans should fear him, not feel sorry for him.

“We’re going to need to stop at the grocers. I don’t have anything for either of us to eat at the flat. I’ve a contact who can likely get you human blood in a day or two—hospital rejects and the like—but in the meantime I take it that cow or pig will do?”

“That’s fine.” He was hungry now, as a matter of fact, and anything sounded good. A block or so later they entered a shop, and he followed dutifully about as Giles rolled the trolley up and down the aisles. Spike kept his head ducked as they went; he knew he’d look even more horrible under the fluorescent lights. Giles tossed this and that into the basket. He even added a few things that Spike requested: some crisps, the tea biscuits Spike sometimes liked to dip in his blood, a box of Weetabix, several bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale. They stopped at the butcher’s counter, where they were able to get a half dozen plastic pint containers of pig’s blood, and then in the prepared foods section, where Giles found something for his dinner as well.

Their purchases were heavy as they walked the last few blocks, and Spike was limping very slowly, trying to avoid little hisses of pain with each step. When they finally entered Giles’s building, Giles asked, “Will you make it up the stairs?”

“Yeah,” Spike growled.

But it was pure stubbornness and pride that got him up the last few steps and down the short hall to Giles’s flat. Giles unlocked the door, paused briefly to invite Spike inside, and then took the grocery bags from Spike’s hands. Spike leaned against the doorway, panting.

“I’m exhausted,” Giles said when he came back from the kitchen. “Come eat and then I’ll show you to your room.”

Spike kept his hands in front of him and walked slowly, trying to get some sense of the obstacles in front of him. There weren’t many; Giles’s flat was sparsely furnished, it seemed. They walked through a living room, where Spike’s shin collided with a low table, and towards the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by low cupboards and a tile counter. Spike sat on a stool at the counter, and, a few minutes later, Giles placed a mug of warmed blood and the Weetabix in front of him. Giles sat beside him and began to eat his own food, which smelled like pasta of some kind.

“I expect you’ll manage to suss out the appliances on your own,” Giles said.

“I’ll manage. You have a telly?”

“Yes. The remote’s somewhere.”

“I’ll find it.” Even if he couldn’t watch, he could at least listen.

“I’ve some CDs as well. My records didn’t survive Sunnydale, I’m afraid.”

Spike put down his empty mug. “Look, Watcher. I’m not a delicate flower. Just don’t chain me in your sodding bathtub and I’ll be fine.”

To his surprise, Giles chuckled. “Behave yourself and I’ll keep the chains put away.” There was a touch of something in his voice that Spike couldn’t quite place. Was that a challenge of some kind?

 

[Chapter 4](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/129976.html)

 


	4.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (4/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 4 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Four**

 

The days dragged by. Spike’s room was comfortable. The bed was much nicer than that ratty sofa bed, he had his own small loo with a sink and shower, and Giles bought some heavy curtains to protect Spike from the sun. Spike felt safe in his room, although he was still haunted by nightmares.

During the day, while Giles was gone, Spike snooped around the flat as best as he could. There wasn’t much of interest, at least that he could discern. He couldn’t read the labels on Giles’s CDs, so he was somewhat apprehensive as he chose randomly from the little plastic cases. But the first disc turned out to be_ Disraeli Gears_ and the next was _In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida_, and he could unlive with that. He found the ale, but nothing harder. Either the Watcher kept all his whiskey at the office or he’d become better at hiding it. Spike managed to work the cooker without burning the house down, and he delved into Giles’s impressive stash of teas. He warmed up his blood in the microwave.  He listened to the telly and watched colored lights flicker across the screen.

He was afraid to go anywhere by himself, but didn’t tell Giles that.

Their third day there, Giles came home with a box full of human blood. “It should be plenty for a steady supply,” he said.

“Cheers.”

They didn’t speak much at all. Giles came home late, usually with more ale, and he sat and drank and read, while Spike mostly kept to his room and went slowly barmy.

At least, that was the excuse he made to himself a week or so after he’d arrived, when he wandered into the living room and threw himself down on a free chair. “So, Watcher. About those terribly important questions you had for me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve been preoccupied with some other matters.”

“Is there really that much evildoing? Thought that army of Slayers would take care of things.”

“Yes, well, I expect they do, in some places. We’re really not in touch.”

“Why not?”

There was the thud of a book slamming shut. “I don’t care to discuss that.”

Giles stood and walked across the room. He opened the cupboard near the door and, by the sound of fabric on fabric, put on his jacket. “I’m going for a walk,” he announced.

 But as he unfastened the chain on the door, Spike said, “Wait! Can I…. I’d like a walk as well.”

His words hung there for ages, and then Giles emitted one of his drama queen sighs. “Very well. Come on, then.”

Spike tried not to look overeager as he scrambled into his trainers and coat. As soon as they were outside, they both lit cigarettes and strolled slowly down the pavement. Spike didn’t actually touch Giles, but he kept very close, hoping the man would warn him before he walked into a lamppost. “Where are we?” he asked after a few blocks. “Can’t place the neighborhood at all.”

“Chelsea. We’ll be turning onto Tite Street in a moment.”

“Oscar Wilde’s old stomping grounds.”

“That’s right. He was—Wait. Did you know the man?”

“Erm…we met.” He decided to change the subject. “There were loads of interesting people in this neighborhood in my time. Rossetti. Swineburn. That wanker Stoker. Most of them killing themselves with alcohol or laudanum or that rot.”

“Did you live here?”

“Close by. Belgravia. Lyall Mews.”

They crossed a street, and now Spike really did smell the Thames, wet and slightly briny.

“That’s a nice area,” Giles said.

“It was then, as well.”

Giles chuckled. “I knew from the Diaries your accent was a bit of a put-on. You came from some money, then.”

“Not much, not really. Father died when I was small.” Christ, when was the last time he’d even thought of his father, the drunken old sod? “He was a mediocre civil engineer. But my mother inherited the house and a bit from her father, who was a barrister. We had enough to get by.”

“Hmm,” Giles said, and they walked in silence for quite a while, until, Spike realized, they were back at Giles’s flat. Which was probably a good thing, because he was limping quite badly by then and his pace had slowed considerably. He stumbled a bit on the second flight of stairs and Giles caught him with a steady hand.

As they took off their coats, Giles cleared his throat. “I have an acquaintance I’d like you to see. A doctor. He might be able to help you.”

“A demon doctor?” Spike asked incredulously.

“No, only human, I’m afraid. But your anatomy is human, more or less, and this man can be trusted not to make a fuss over your rather…unique…condition.”

“I’m a vampire, Watcher! Vampires don’t go to bloody doctors!”

Giles grabbed his arm very tightly. “And vampires don’t sulk about in flats, misfiling people’s CDs and eating all their breakfast cereal.  You will see him.” There was a confident authority in his voice, and Spike’s immediate reaction was to snarl and fight back. But there was another part of him, a bit he rarely acknowledged, that was grateful for it, thankful to have someone insisting he be cared for.

Spike slumped slightly and stopped trying to pull away. “Fine. I’ll see him. Next you’ll be dragging me to a bloody dentist.”

Giles laughed. “When is the last time you had those fangs polished?”

 

***

 

_A voice is talking to him, and when he recognizes it he shudders and tries to scurry away, but only gets tangled in the bedding. He is filled with such terror that he can’t focus at all on the words, and she has to repeat them, which annoys her._

_“Your kind is so fragile, so easily damaged.”_

_He laughs because he’d once thought the same about humans._

_“I grow bored with this place,” she says. “I will relocate to another dimension, where weak creatures such as yourself cannot survive. You will stay here. I have provided for you for four lunar cycles.”_

_She leaves without saying goodbye, before he even has a chance to know what questions he wants to ask her._

 

***

 

Something grabbed at him, and where once his instinct would have been to attack, now he tried to roll away, ignoring the way it sent knives of pain through his hips. But the hand held him fast. He felt his demon face flash to the fore as panic set in, but then a familiar voice said, “Spike!”

He calmed. “G-Giles?”

“You were yelling.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been shouting in your sleep every night.” He hadn’t removed his hand from Spike’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Spike repeated miserably. “Didn’t mean to.” Was the Watcher going to toss him out on the street?

“Of course you didn’t mean to. You needn’t apologize for your nightmares.” Giles’s voice held its usual note of annoyance, but was Spike imagining there was something else there as well? A shred of consolation, perhaps. Then Giles became more businesslike, as if he might be taking notes. “You haven’t always had dreams like these. Is it the soul?”

“No. Least, I don’t think so. It’s only been…more recently.”

“Since you burned in Sunnydale?”

“No. After. Since…since the alley.” His own voice was so quiet even he could barely hear it.

“What exactly happened to you, Spike?”

“Don’t…don’t want to talk about it. Please.” He hated how pathetic and pleading he sounded.

Giles patted him a bit awkwardly. “Very well. I’m going back to sleep, then.”

“Wait!” Spike grabbed at his arm and managed to catch his wrist. “Could you…could you stay? Just a bit.” Even though he couldn’t see Giles’s expression, he turned his head away.

After a brief pause, Giles said, “All right. How about if I read to you?”

“Yeah. Ta.”

The mattress shifted as Giles stood, but a moment later he was back, and he shoved gently at Spike until Spike scooted over. Giles sat alongside him with his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out along the bed. Spike could feel the heat emanating from him. “I thought something other than a demon encyclopedia might be best at this hour of the night.” He cleared his throat and began to read. “’A man who has lived in the world, marking how every act, although in itself perhaps light and insignificant, may become the source of consequences that spread far and wide, and flow for years or centuries, could scarcely feel secure in reckoning that with the death of the Duke of Strelsau and the restoration of King Rudolf to liberty and his throne, there would end, for good and all, the troubles born of Black Michael's daring conspiracy….’”

Nobody had read to Spike since he was a child. He fell soundly asleep sometime in Chapter Two, shortly after Rupert of Hentzau found the letter from Queen Flavia.

 

***

 

“Mr., uh, Spike? Please have a seat.” Dr. Thompson sounded like a bloke who was trying very hard to remain calm, and almost succeeding.

Spike felt in front of him until he found a chair back, then moved around to sit. Giles sat down next to him.

“Mr. Giles has explained a bit of your, erm, situation, but perhaps you could tell me yourself?”

“Right. ‘M a vampire. Rupert told you that much?”

“Erm, yes.”

“Usually we mend on our own. I didn’t. And the bits that did, well, they didn’t mend properly. Bones set wrong. They’ll need to be broken again and reset, I expect.”

“I see. Well, if I may, I’d like to take a look at your eyes first.”

Spike nodded and then sat still as the doctor shined a light first in his right eye and then in his left. “Well,” he said when he was done. “The corneas are almost completely destroyed. It’s a wonder you didn’t lose the eyes altogether. Your pupils did react to the light, though. Can you see at all?”

“A bit. Light and shadows. Shapes and colors.”

Dr. Thompson spent a moment writing on a pad of paper, the pen making scratchy noises. “I’d like to examine the rest of you. If you don’t mind removing your clothing? Erm, Mr. Giles can wait in the next room.”

Spike felt a flash of panic at the thought of being left with this stranger. A stranger with medical instruments, which reminded him too uncomfortably of Maggie Walsh and her lot. “He can stay,” he said. “Nothing he hasn’t seen before anyhow.” The Giles he’d once known might have run out of the room, embarrassed. This version of Giles only made an amused little snort and stayed put.

Spike stripped off his clothes quickly. The doctor didn’t say anything as the devastation of his body was revealed, but Spike could hear the way his heart sped up and his breathing hitched just a little. He led Spike to a metal table covered in crackly paper and had him lie down. It was bloody cold against his back and arse.

“Do vampires, erm, regenerate, Spike?” the doctor asked after he’d spent several minutes poking at Spike and exclaiming quietly to himself over Spike’s lack of bodily functions.

“If you mean to ask whether my bollock will grow back, no. We generally mend, but we can’t grow back bits that are missing altogether.”

“Do you know why the rest—the scars and so forth—haven’t healed?”

“Not really. I reckon because something mystical was involved. Or some kind of poison, perhaps. Dunno. The wankers that did this knew they’d be fighting vamps.”

Dr. Thompson scribbled some more, then did usher Giles from the room as he took X-rays. While they waited for the films to develop, he gave Spike a thin blanket to cover himself with, and then asked a long series of questions about vampire physiology. When Spike grew impatient with answering them, Giles did instead, and he did a credible job of it, too.

Finally the x-rays were ready, and Dr. Thompson stared at them for a long time. “This must be very painful for you,” he said quietly. “The bones are very badly misaligned and the joints are completely wrong.”

“Can you fix them?” Giles asked.

“Yes, I think so. It will require quite extensive surgery. Normally, we’d do this as a series of surgeries, in fact—“

“Do it all at once,” Spike ordered. “Get it done with.”

“Well, all right. I’ve never operated on, erm, someone like you, though, and—“

“Not so different than human, Doc. I’ll need loads more anesthetic, and you don’t have to worry about sterilization or antibiotics or any of that rubbish.”

He could almost hear the man thinking. “You’ll be in a cast for some time. From beneath your ribs all the way to your ankles. We’ll have to catheterize, of course.”

“No need. I don’t piss or shit.”

“Then where…. You do consume blood, yes? What happens to the waste?”

“Dunno, don’t care. Haven’t used a loo since 1880, mate. Missed the whole evolution of toilets.”

Did he hear Giles snicker?

 

***

 

The anesthesia was not a success. They did the procedure in Dr. Thompson’s office aided by a pair of unhappy Watchers with medical training. The doctor tried knocking Spike out with gas first, but to nobody’s especial surprise, that didn’t work at all. So then he’d injected something into Spike’s arm, and when that had no effect and Spike assured him that overdosing wasn’t a risk, he injected loads more. The shite made Spike feel as if he were sinking in a tar pit in which the corpses of every person he’d killed clutched hungrily at his limbs. When Spike surfaced enough to speak, he screamed for the doctor not to give him any more.

After that, Dr. Thompson huffed unhappily. Giles ended up tightly gagging Spike’s mouth and tying his body to the table—he was good at it, Spike noted absently—so that Spike’s shrieks were muffled and his occasional uncontrollable flails were contained, and the surgery was completed without additional drugs. Sometimes the pain was bad enough to send Spike into unconsciousness for a time, and that was good.

Eventually the pain receded a bit and Giles removed the gag and helped him drink several pints of blood as the doctor swathed him in miles of plaster bandages. The cast hardened quickly, immobilizing him from the chest down. “Eyes,” Spike croaked at the doctor.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for them. Perhaps a corneal transplant might be an option, but with your unique biology, I don’t know. You’d have to speak with a specialist. I’m an orthopedist.”

“Right,” Spike said. It had been stupid of him to think there was hope of normal vision again. At least if this surgery were successful, that would be an improvement itself.

Giles instructed his Watcher minions to carry Spike out to the hired lorry. “Hurry up,” he snapped. “It will be sunrise soon.” Luckily, it was a short ride back to Giles’s flat, and nobody was around to see three men carrying a vampire in a body cast up the stairs.

Giles made sure the pillows were arranged comfortably under Spike’s head and gave him one more mugful of blood. Then he yawned loudly. “I need a few hours of sleep before I go to work. I expect you’re in need of rest yourself. Can I get you anything first?”

“No.” Spike was completely knackered and felt like he could sleep for a week. But before Giles left, he called out, “Rupert?”

“Yes?”

“Cheers. For the doctor, for…well, cheers.”

In a soft voice, Giles replied, “You’re welcome, Spike.”

 

[Chapter 5](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/130324.html)

 


	5.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (5/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 5 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Five**

 

Giles tried to help Spike’s recovery along. He made sure Spike fed properly. The second day, he brought home an iPod he’d filled with several audio books as well as music. It wasn’t easy for Spike to work the thing without being able to see the screen, but he managed, and it certainly helped pass the time.

But Giles was gone very long hours and seemed distracted even when he was tending to Spike. Spike was desperate for conversation, but Giles spoke mostly in monosyllables and tended to forget what he’d been saying when he was in the middle of sentences.

Four days after the surgery, Spike’s bones itched and his skin itched and his bleeding brain itched. He heard the door to the flat open and the small sounds of Giles settling in. A few moments later the microwave pinged, and then Giles appeared at his bedside with a cup of warmed blood. “Here,” Giles said, putting the straw against Spike’s lips. “I don’t believe you’ve been having enough.”

But Spike froze as he realized the scent of blood wasn’t just coming from the cup. “Are you injured, Rupert?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m quite fine.”

Spike sniffed. “Not you, then. But there’s plenty of it.”

“Is it offending your delicate sensibilities, Spike? I can go change if you like.” He sounded very irritable.

“No, I just…. What have you been up to, Watcher?”

“It’s none of your affair, I assure you. Are you going to feed? I have things to do besides care for you, you know.”

Spike dutifully sipped at his mug, but as slowly as he thought he could get away with. Giles sat on the edge of the mattress, drumming his fingers on the duvet.

“Rupert?” Spike said meekly when he was nearly done. “Do you reckon you could get me a damp flannel? I haven’t been able to wash since the surgery and—“

“Yes, yes. Fine.”

It only took him a moment to fetch the towel and return, but then, to Spike’s surprise, he began running it over Spike’s face himself. Tenderly, like a parent might wash a small child. Spike, of course, was perfectly capable of doing this himself, but it felt brilliant to be cared for like this and so he sat very still, hoping Giles wouldn’t come to his senses and stop.

But Giles didn’t stop. In fact, when he finished Spike’s face he moved down to his neck, and his movements got gradually slower and smaller, as if he were finding it as soothing as Spike was. Gently, having apparently forgotten that he had other things to do, he ran the soft fabric over Spike’s shoulders and arms, first one and then the other. Spike let his eyelids close—wasn’t as if he could see anything much anyhow—and breathed in and out. How long had it been since someone had touched him like this?

Giles suddenly stopped and stood, and Spike had to bite back a groan of disappointment. But then Giles returned straight away, the flannel freshly dampened. He swiped it down Spike’s chest, and although Spike found himself trying to arch into the strokes, Giles didn’t seem to mind. Spike’s nipples hardened as the fabric moved across them, and damned if his poor cock wasn’t trying to do the same in its plaster prison. It was a good job the cast was there to hide it, he thought. Rupert would not have been amused. But Spike was pleased, at least, to learn that the thing still worked. He hadn’t been certain.

It was too bad so much of Spike’s body was currently mummified, because Giles soon ran out of skin to wash. But he went away again and this time he returned with a comb. He ran it very slowly through Spike’s tangled curls, until Spike felt like purring like a great cat. Unfortunately, he eventually finished with that as well, and then he sat silently for a moment. “Well,” he said at last. “You’re sorted. I have—“

Before he could finish, and acting totally on impulse, Spike reached out and grabbed his hand, and then brought that hand to his own mouth, where he just barely brushed his lips against Giles’s knuckles. “Ta,” he said, very quietly, because otherwise he might have cried. Just because a bloody Watcher had taken a few minutes to be gentle and kind to him.

Giles didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he drew a broad thumb down the length of one of Spike’s cheekbones. “You’re welcome,” he said, and then he stood and walked away.

 

***

 

The next evening, Giles came home even later, and once again smelling of blood. Not only blood, though, but death, an odor with which Spike was intimately familiar. This time, Spike broached the subject before he even took his mug of blood from Giles’s hand. “Why are you killing humans? More witches need finding?”

“No. And it’s none—“

“None of my affair. Right. But I _do_ have that soul, you’ll recall, and it’s working perfectly well, even if yours isn’t. Besides, you claimed you brought me here because I might be able to help. Perhaps I can help you with this.”

“You can’t—“ Giles stopped and sighed. “Very well. But just a moment.”

When he came back, he had a glass of whiskey in one hand, and another that he held for Spike. Spike sipped slowly at it, enjoying the bit of a burn as the liquid trickled down his throat, even though he had to drink the stuff through a bloody straw. There was a double thud as Giles kicked off his shoes, and then he shifted around to recline on the bed next to Spike. Spike surreptitiously moved his own torso over a few inches until it was just barely brushing Giles’s side.

“Do you know what the Slayers have been doing of late?”

“No. Last I heard—well, there was that barmy one. Dana.” He shuddered at the memory. “That little twit Andrew collected her. And after, we heard Buffy was in Rome. I assumed you were all together, saving the world again.”

“We weren’t.” Giles took a long swallow of his drink. “We tried for a time, but, well, you’ll recall that matters were rather strained between Buffy and me in Sunnydale.”

“Thought you’d reconciled, there at the end.”

“It didn’t last. Buffy and Faith didn’t want to be involved with the Council. Couldn’t really blame them for that.”

Spike snorted quietly. He couldn’t blame them either for wanting to be free of that lot. “So they wouldn’t have you, either?” he asked.

“No, I could have remained with them. I did, for a time. We were in Italy, as you said, and then in Slovenia.” He chuckled slightly. “Much to the girls’ dismay. Apparently the shopping and socializing possibilities in Maribor don’t quite compare to Rome.”

Spike had been in Maribor once when he was traveling with Angelus and company. He didn’t remember much except a Gothic cathedral with a high arched ceiling and checkered floor.  The four of them had feasted there. Angelus always did have a preoccupation with priests and the rest of the churchly bits and trappings, the old git.

But Giles was still speaking. “Willow stayed in Rome. She found a coven there, and then a girlfriend, and she didn’t wish to leave. Dawn stayed as well. She enrolled in school. But the rest of us moved on. When we first arrived in Slovenia we were using our usual tactics, reacting to whatever catastrophe happened to arise. I suggested we might take a more proactive approach, but Buffy disagreed. There was a great deal of tension. So I left. I contacted the Council and returned to London.”

 “And you’re not speaking to one another now?”

“We’ve each made an attempt or two, but they didn’t go well. So, no. We’re not. And I haven’t been in touch with the others either because they don’t want to be caught in the middle.”

Spike thought about how Giles must have felt, separated from the people who had been, for all intents, his children for the past several years. “You know, some people, when they grow up they distance themselves from their parents. Part of finding themselves, I expect.”

“And others stay with their mothers even after they’re turned. You needn’t lecture me on human psychology, Spike.”

Hurt, Spike turned his head away.

Giles sighed again and rested a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled-for. It’s…it’s very distressing, actually.”

Spike rolled his head back and patted Giles’s leg slightly awkwardly. When he left his palm just above Giles’s knee, Giles didn’t remove it. “Is your current problem related to your falling out with the Scoobies?” Spike asked.

“More or less. There’s an ancient organization called Vis Legis. Do you know of them?”

“Heard of them. Vigilante nutters. Don’t fancy demons much, or anything else that goes against their moral code.”

“They’ve long been at odds with the Council, but we’ve more or less stayed away from one another. An uneasy truce. But when Willow activated Slayers all over the world, Vis Legis decided that having more than a single Chosen One was a violation of some fundamental rule. They’re going to do something about that.”

Neither of them said anything for a time, but they maintained their contact, with Giles’s hand on Spike’s shoulder, and Spike’s hand on Giles’s leg. Then Giles refilled their glasses and held the straw to Spike’s lips.

“Have you tried to warn Buffy?” Spike asked at last.

“Yes. She won’t listen. I’ve given up.”

“And you’re working on Vis Legis yourself. Doing a bit of wetwork.”

“We’re trying to. They’re quite secretive.”

Spike took a deep breath. “Look, Rupert. I know I’m bloody useless. But perhaps I know something that might help. Or…I don’t know. There must be something I can do besides lying around like a bleeding sack of potatoes.”

Giles moved his hand off Spike’s shoulder and brushed his fingertips along Spike’s neck and then along his cheekbone. The touch made Spike shiver again, but in an altogether more pleasant way. “You’ve done a great deal already, Spike. You’ve suff—well, you’ve been through so much. Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Please, Rupert. I can’t…I can’t go on like this. Wasn’t meant to be a bloody invalid, doing nothing but eating and sleeping. Please.”

Giles moved his thumb soothingly back and forth against Spike’s skin, back and forth. He smelled good, like smoke and whiskey. “All right. You can begin by telling me about what happened in LA.”

 

***

 

_Illyria is gone and he’s alone. But Christ, he hurts, and he can’t see anything but dim blurs and he’s so bloody scared. _

_When hunger gnaws at him he tries to stand, but immediately falls to the floor, moaning hoarsely at the pain in his hips and legs. After some immeasurable time he crawls toward the fridge—he can hear it humming asthmatically across the room—and it takes him a century to make it, but eventually he does. He tears open a packet of blood and gulps it messily, then a second, and he’s midway through the third before reason sets in. He makes himself stop, and then he carefully counts the remaining bags in the fridge and in the freezer compartment. He calculates how long they’ll last him._

_He spends several days gathering the strength to walk, lurching across the vinyl tile floor and banging into furniture. He finds the clothes Illyria has left him, his pathetic little pile of possessions. He hacks off his hair with a kitchen knife._

_He can feel the blood crusted on him, both his own and the drips from what he’s drunk. He waits until all is very quiet in the building and makes his way to what he hopes is the loo down the hall. He’s heard water running there. He has to lean against the walls as he goes, but he makes it without falling and considers that a victory._

_It’s another victory when he finds the shower and works out how to turn it on, and the water is hot and it feels lovely. He has no towel, so he puts his clothes back on his wet body and returns to his room. When he gets there, he closes the door and locks it and collapses onto the floor, shaking from pain and delayed fear._

_The Big Bad._

 

***

 

Within a few more days Spike convinced Giles that his bones were properly mended and the cast could come off. He was fairly certain he was telling the truth. The constant pain in his limbs was gone, at least, and his muscles felt twitchy, anxious to move.

Giles cut the cast off himself, using a tool he’d borrowed from Dr. Thompson. Spike was in a hurry to try out his remodeled bones, but Giles made him wait while he removed the layers of gauze that had been wrapped beneath the plaster. Finally, though, Spike sat up—it was brilliant just to _bend_ again!—and scooted his legs over so his feet were touching the floor. “Here we go,” he said, and stood. Giles hovered very close by but didn’t touch him.

His legs held his weight. They felt weak from lack of use, but when he took a tentative step, the knife blades that had dogged his every movement weren’t there. A second step, his leg swinging freely in the joint, and then a third.

“Bloody hell,” he said to Giles, grinning for what felt like the first time in ages.  “Buy Dr. Thompson a drink or three for me, yeah?”

“I’ll be delighted to. Would you like a bath, Spike? You’re rather…messy.”

“A bath would be lovely.” His skin was coated in plaster dust and whatever goo the good doctor had smeared on him, and he wasn’t certain his legs would hold him for an entire shower.

Giles gently grasped his forearm. “Come on, then.”

He hadn’t spent much time in Giles’s room since he’d arrived in London. It was bigger than his, he thought, but not by much. Bookshelves lined the walls, and there was a small desk with a laptop on it. They walked through the room, Giles neatly steering Spike around the end of the bed and a pile of something on the floor, and into the loo. By then Spike needed a bit of a rest, so he sat on the closed toilet while Giles filled the bathtub.

When the bath was full, Giles helped him in, and Spike sank gratefully into the water. He moaned happily and then asked, “Not going to chain me in here, are you?”

“No. You’ve been very well behaved. Haven’t had to punish you once.”

Under the water, Spike’s long-neglected cock twitched. He wished he could make out the expression on the Watcher’s face. Experimentally, he mumbled, “Don’t really mind a bit of punishment, now and then.”

“Well, then,” Giles said, his voice tinged with humor. “You shall have to be a bit naughty, then.”

Spike’s cock twitched again. “Might do,” he said.

Giles knelt beside the bathtub and cupped Spike’s face in his hands. “Get a bit stronger first.” And he leaned forward and kissed Spike, hard and masterful, their faces wet from the bathwater. Spike’s arms lifted of their own accord and he grabbed at Giles’s shoulders like a drowning man, instantly soaking Giles’s jumper, filling the room with the scent of wet wool.

When Giles pulled away, they were both breathless.

Spike tilted his head and squinted his eyes, trying desperately and unsuccessfully to see something of the man’s face except a pale blob. “You do recall who I am, don’t you? You know who you’ve just been snogging?”

“I’m not quite senile yet. I’ve just been snogging William the Bloody, one-time companion to the Scourge of Europe.”

“And that doesn’t bother you, Watcher?”

“No more than it bothers you, vampire.” Giles replied, and he thrust his hand into the water and stroked Spike’s now fully hard cock.

Spike gasped and arched against his palm. “You’re not really old Rupert Giles, mild-mannered librarian, any longer, are you?”

“I wasn’t always that man, even before, you know. Not always the respectable old bumbler in tweed.” He was still stroking, slowly but firmly. Then his hand slid lower and he cupped Spike’s single remaining bollock in a way that made it clear that Spike’s maiming didn’t disgust him. A moment later, though, he removed his hand from the water entirely, and Spike nearly sobbed with frustration. “As I said before, get a bit stronger first.”

After that, he helped Spike scrub himself with soap and flannel, his movements now very businesslike, even when he washed the bits of plaster that had stuck between Spike’s legs. But Spike’s erection didn’t flag one bit, and when the bath was over and Giles had pulled the plug, he felt ridiculous standing in the draining water with his todger standing up so hopefully. Giles helped him out and wrapped him in a big, fluffy towel, and then led him back to his own overly familiar bed.

He tucked Spike in like he would a child, but Spike found himself not minding at all, especially when Giles smoothed the hair back and gave him a tender kiss on his brow. But that reminded Spike. “My scars—they don’t repulse you?” He hadn’t seen his own face in over a century of course, and he tried now to picture what it must look like.

Giles traced a fingertip down one of the longer scars. “No. Nothing about you repulses me, Spike. Now rest. Get strong.”

 

[Chapter 6](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/130580.html)

 


	6.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (6/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 6 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Six**

 

Spike got stronger. He began by just walking across his room, and then across the flat. Two days after the cast came off he was ready to tackle the stairs—but not by himself. So he waited until Giles got home and they went for a walk together. They walked arm in arm, which made Spike feel like he was some Victorian bint promenading through Hyde Park. But Giles’s arm kept Spike from walking into anything, and besides, Giles felt warm and strong and solid beside him.

They passed by a group of people who were talking loudly about football, and Spike asked, “You don’t mind if people see you like this?”

“I’ve been ‘seen’ with another man before, Spike. Long before it was as acceptable as it is today.”

So he’d had blokes before. Interesting. Spike said, “But ‘m not a man, am I?”

“You’re not human, no, but unless you start flashing your fangs around nobody else will be aware of that.”

“But my face—“

Giles abruptly stopped and he turned a bit and cupped Spike’s chin in his free palm.  “You are a vain creature, aren’t you? You needn’t worry. You’re still quite beautiful.” He let go and began walking again, and Spike felt a tiny warm glow somewhere deep inside him.

Several blocks later, Giles said,  “I’ve been doing some research.”

“There’s something new.”

Giles _tsked_. “There’s one. I shall remember that when you’re well enough for that punishment we discussed.”

Spike’s step faltered slightly and there was a pleasant twinge low in his belly.

“As I was saying,” Giles continued, “I’ve been doing some research. I believe I know what happened to you after the battle in the alley.”

“I was sent to hell, wasn’t I? Paying for what I’ve done. Wasn’t the same as what I saw with that tosser Pavayne, but—“

“You weren’t in hell, Spike.”

This time Spike stopped. “Sure felt like it to me, mate.”

“I know it was…well, terrible hardly begins to describe it, does it? But your suffering wasn’t intentional. You weren’t meant to be paying for anything.”

“It wasn’t Disneyland, Rupert.”

“No. I believe the Old One—“

“Illyria.”

“Yes, Illyria. I believe she was attempting to rescue you. She moved you through transdimensional space. It would have been a fairly simple maneuver for her, but for you, with your relatively weaker body, it would have been excruciating. It must have very nearly destroyed you. I expect she had no idea it would have that effect on you.”

Spike considered this for a few moments. It did make some sense, and Blue had been pretty clueless about human and vampire limitations. “But why did she leave me there so long? It was….” He swallowed. “I was there for ages.”

“Time doesn’t exist in transdimensional space. Or perhaps it does, but it’s nonlinear. Nobody’s certain. It’s not as if people go on holiday there and then report back.”

“That’s why, when I ended up in my flat, it was only a few weeks later?” When Spike had finally built enough physical and emotional stamina to emerge from his flat, he’d been shocked to learn how little time had passed. But then he knew time in hell was different than time on earth, so he’d chalked it up to that.

“Do you understand what this means, Spike?”

“I owe Blue a qualified thank you, I reckon. I would have dusted if she hadn’t taken me away.”

“Yes, yes. But it also means that if you _do_ dust, you won’t be returning there. You’ll never go back to that place, Spike.”

Again, Spike had to mull this over, but as the meaning of the words sank in, it was if an enormous weight were being removed from him. For the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t afraid.

He pulled his arm from Giles’s and reached up to pull the man’s head down to his. They kissed, this time slowly and passionately, and somebody walking by wolf-whistled and then laughed before moving on. A good snog was a bit like an infinitely more pleasant version of transdimensional space, Spike thought. Time had no meaning.

But finally they pulled their mouths a few inches apart, and Spike ran his fingers through Giles’s hair. “Rupert? I believe I’m strong now.”

 

***

 

In all honesty, Spike’s legs were aching by the time they returned to the flat, but he wasn’t about to tell Giles that. He silently congratulated himself for hiding his limp, and he waited impatiently while Giles locked the door and hung up his jacket—he put Spike’s away as well—and then took a hundred years to do the washing up from dinner. Spike sat in the living room, listening to _Houses of the Holy_ and sipping at a warm mug of blood. His stomach felt fluttery with anticipation, as if he were a sodding virgin again. “The dishes can bloody well wait,” he complained loudly.

“Patience,” was all Giles said in reply, and he proceeded to redecorate the entire flat. Or so it seemed to Spike, at least.

Finally, about when Spike would have died of old age had he not been a vampire, Giles came slowly toward him. He sat on one of the chairs, and for a moment they were both silent. It was fairly awkward.

“How are you feeling?” Giles asked at last.

“’M fine. No worries. Never been better.”

“I see.” Giles sounded a bit angry, and Spike had no idea why. “Stand up, please.”

Spike put down his empty cup and stood.

“Now remove your clothes.”

“But—“

“Now, please.”

Spike bit at his lip, but then he dutifully pulled his shirt over his head. He kicked off his shoes and shimmied off his jeans, and then stood there. He felt self-conscious, even though Giles had seen him naked several times already, and even though modesty hadn’t been something he’d practiced since the nineteenth century.

“Very good, Spike. Now, come here, if you please.”

Spike walked a few steps until he could sense Giles just inches in front of him. Still seated, still fully clothed.

“Bend over my knees.”

“What?”

“I believe your hearing is fine, Spike. We discussed punishment, did we not?”

Spike’s knees went slightly wobbly, but then his cock started to fill as his brain sent his body some rather mixed messages. Still worrying at his lip, he bent. Giles helped move him into place so that Spike’s rapidly hardening cock wasn’t touching anything and his arse was conveniently placed.

“Lovely,” Giles said approvingly, and rubbed very lightly at Spike’s upturned buttocks. “Now, I’d like you to feel free to make plenty of noise, if you wish. There’s no need to hold back.”

“But the neighbors—“

“I don’t care about the neighbors. The Council owns this building, so it’s not as if I’m going to be evicted. Besides, the walls are nice and thick. Now, shall we begin?”

Spike nodded, but when Giles didn’t react in any way, he said very quietly, “Yeah. Please.”

“Good. Now, let me see. We’ll have ten for cheekiness.” He pinched Spike’s arse when he said that. “And ten for impatience. And then twenty for dishonesty.”

“Dishonesty?” Spike sputtered. “I haven’t! Haven’t told you anything but the truth, and—“

“I asked you how you were feeling, and you said fine. You didn’t tell me your legs were hurting. In fact, you’ve been trying to mask the pain since Cheyne Walk.”

“’T’s not so bad,” Spike mumbled.

“If we’re to do this, I’ll expect complete honesty, and I’ll give you the same. You understand?”

Spike sighed. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Excellent. Forty it is, then.”

Spike tensed, but the first few swats were quite light. Just when he began to relax, though, the blows became harder, until the sound of them echoed in the flat and Spike stopped attempting to hold back his cries. Giles hit first one cheek, then the other, and sometimes he’d pause for just a minute before he began to wallop again. His hand felt harder than a paddle and as hot as coals, and it hurt like bloody hell and yet Spike kept wriggling, leaning back into the beating and then trying in vain to get some friction against his leaking cock. It was maddening. He lost track of everything but his arse and his cock and his one aching ball, and he screamed and cried, and he was certain Giles had hit him much more than forty times but Spike didn’t want him to stop.

But then Giles did stop, and he rearranged Spike’s pliant body until Spike was sitting on Giles’s leg, the fabric of Giles’s trousers hurting his sore bum. Giles fisted Spike’s cock and pulled at it firmly. “Come, dear boy,” he said, and Spike did, crying out once more and spurting his spend over the man’s hand.

Then Spike felt very weak, his entire body limp and heavy. He slumped in Giles’s arms, resting his face in the crook of Giles’s neck, still sobbing, his tears soaking the collar thoroughly. Giles stroked his back and kissed at his ear until at last Spike was only sniffling a bit. He felt oddly at peace, like a dam inside him had broken and let the evil out.

“Bed?” Giles asked.

“But you didn’t—“ Spike could feel Giles’s erection digging into his thigh.

“I will. But I have more patience and less stamina than you. Come on.” He jiggled his leg a bit until Spike stood, then draped his arm around Spike’s shoulders. To Spike’s pleasant surprise, he steered them toward his own bedroom rather than Spike’s.

“’M not a boy, you know,” Spike mumbled. “’M a century your senior.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be my boy now, does it?”

The thought of being somebody’s boy—and a Watcher’s to boot—might once have only made Spike angry, but now he was quite pleased with it. It was a warming feeling, like when he’d been human and he’d been out of doors on a cold, blustery day, and he’d come inside to stand by a roaring fire, and his mother had handed him hot tea to drink. It made him feel as if he belonged someplace, as if he had a home. He hadn’t felt like that since…well, since he could remember.

Giles sat Spike on the edge of the bed and then sat beside him. Spike leaned against him and Giles ran his fingers through Spike’s hair. “Do you truly want this, Spike? You don’t have to, you know. You can stay here as long as you like and I won’t expect anything of you.”

“I want this. Please.”

Giles made an approving little sound. “Good. Then I shall expect honesty from now on, yes? And I need you to trust me. Do you?”

“Yeah.”

Spike felt Giles shake his head. “No. You answered that too quickly. Think about it, Spike. Knowing who I am, who you are, what we’ve both done, do you trust me?”

Spike did think about it, weighing Giles’s words in his mind. In all his many years, there had never been anyone in whom he could confidently place his trust. Drusilla, his dark princess, was as inconstant as the wind. Buffy had never loved him, he’d always known that, and she had never let him really inside her. Besides, she’d dusted even her great love Angel when she thought it would save the world, and he knew she’d do the same to him. And Angel himself…well, with or without a soul, his universe always revolved around himself, and Spike would never be more than a satellite. A satellite that would be sacrificed if Angel found it expedient to do so. The ironic thing was that Spike himself had always been quite trustworthy, even when he had no soul. He’d cared for Dru for over a hundred years, no matter how many times she was unfaithful, no matter his knowledge that it was her Daddy she truly pined for. He’d followed through on all his promises, good and bad. But nobody had ever really trusted him, either.

He sighed. “I want to, Rupert. I do. I’m not sure I’m able.”

Giles stroked his hair. “That was a truthful answer. Thank you. We’ll have to work on it, then, and see what we can do.” And it seemed that he was satisfied, because he kissed Spike, urging Spike’s lips apart with his tongue and taking possession of Spike’s mouth. Spike let himself be plundered that way. He bunched handfuls of Giles’s shirt in his fists as if he were afraid Giles might get away otherwise, while Giles clutched at Spike’s hair.

Then Giles gently pushed Spike onto his back, and Spike scooted around so he was lying lengthwise on the bed. Giles kissed across the scars on Spike’s face—even the old one on his left eyebrow—and down his jawline. He nibbled at the thin skin of Spike’s neck, causing Spike to bend his head to the side, offering up more of himself. Dimly, Spike wondered if Giles understood what that gesture meant to a vampire, and then Spike remembered that Giles was a Watcher and most certainly did understand, and that was why the man was taking such care to bite and lick and suck at all the most vulnerable bits along the carotid and jugular. Spike was already rock hard again and moaning steadily.

Giles worked at Spike’s collarbones for a bit—more scraping of blunt teeth, more softly pressed lips. Then he knelt up, still straddling Spike’s body, and unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it off the side of the bed, and then his undershirt as well. He waited patiently while Spike ran greedy hands over Giles’s chest and stomach, feeling the wiry hairs there, the hard pebbles of nipples, the slight softness around Giles’s middle.

“Bit of middle-aged spread, I’m afraid,” Giles said, sounding slightly embarrassed.

“’S lovely,” Spike replied earnestly, and Giles laughed.

Spike’s torso was a snarled mess of ridges and furrows, and Giles took his time kissing along every one of them as if he were claiming them as his. But eventually he moved lower, so that he was nuzzling instead at Spike’s mangled scrotum, licking the insides of Spike’s thighs, and Spike was thrashing his head back and forth on the pillow and clenching his jaw to keep from begging.

But when Giles licked a broad stripe up the length of Spike’s cock, Spike froze. “I used to be quite good at this, once upon a time. Let’s see if I’ve lost the knack.” And Giles took the head of Spike’s cock between his lips.

Spike discovered very quickly that Giles hadn’t lost the knack at all. The moist heat of him around Spike’s cock, the way he tongued at Spike’s slit and scraped his teeth along his foreskin, the blunt finger that was teasing just around the edge of Spike’s hole—it was all very quickly too much for him.

“Gonna come,” he grunted desperately.

Giles slid his mouth off. “That’s the general idea,” he said, and then swallowed Spike’s cock to the root, at the same time pressing his finger just barely inside Spike’s sphincter.

Spike did come then, so hard his body convulsed and he called out—“Oh, fuck!”—and even his blind eyes saw stars.

Giles continued to suck on him, draining him completely, then licking delicately at the tip of the glans as Spike rode out the aftershocks.

“Fuck!” Spike said again when he could speak again. “Bloody _hell_, Rupert!”

“It’s like riding a bicycle, then, I expect,” Giles said, a bit of smugness in his voice. As Spike lay spread out on the mattress like some sort of sacrificial offering—and a willing sacrifice he’d be, at this point—Giles climbed off the mattress. Spike heard the small sound of his trousers falling on the floor, followed a moment later by his underclothes. Then Giles sat on the edge of the bed to peel off his socks. When he was finally as bare as Spike, he lay alongside him, and Spike instantly plastered himself to the man’s warm, strong body.

Spike reached over, and for the first time, actually touched Giles’s cock. It was fully erect. It was shorter than Spike’s own, but broader, and Spike ran a finger up and down its length, familiarizing himself with it by touch.

“Haven’t had blokes very often,” Spike said. “Least, not human ones, and not lately.”

“The Diaries imply that you and Angelus—“

“Yeah. Now and then, you know, for variety’s sake, or when the girls were off elsewhere.”

“Hmm,” Giles said as Spike gently fondled his bollocks.

“When I was in LA, sometimes Angel and I…well, he’d get stressed, like, and we’d shag, because he knew he was never going to shed his soul over me.”

“You deserve more than to be used as stress relief, Spike,” Giles said sternly.

“Well, I’d get my end away as well. Wasn’t exactly unpleasant. We’d fight, we’d shag. Was all right. This is nicer, though,” he hastened to add.

Giles lay on his back, letting Spike explore his body with hands and mouth, and Spike realized that he didn’t miss his eyesight right then at all. Vision wouldn’t have added anything to the very pleasant experience. In fact, Spike closed his lids anyway, the better to concentrate on the feel of skin and the whiskey-smoke-paper scent and the sounds of beating heart and rushing blood.

Only when Giles’s heart began to speed up a bit did he move. He reached over and patted Spike’s still-tender arse, then pushed Spike onto his back again. He fumbled with something for a moment—the bedside table, Spike thought—and brought his hand between Spike’s legs with his fingers slicked.

Spike’s cock had never really softened all the way, and now the greedy thing became fully erect once more as Giles probed gently inside him with a single finger, and then two. Spike hissed when those fingers rubbed him just right, so Giles repeated the movement, and soon Spike was groaning and writhing, trying to fuck himself on Giles’s fingers. He whined when those fingers were removed.

Giles repositioned himself between Spike’s legs, and Spike immediately lifted his knees nearly to his ears. Giles hummed appreciatively. “Flexibility,” Spike said. “Part of the vamp package.”

“It’s quite a nice package,” Giles agreed.

Giles’s cock pressed against Spike’s ready hole and then, slowly but steadily, inside. “Good Lord,” he said.

“I’ll warm up with the friction.”

“It wasn’t a complaint, Spike.”

There wasn’t much talking after that. Mostly grunting and huffing and when Giles bent down and latched his teeth onto Spike’s neck, trapping Spike’s cock between their bodies, Spike came for the third time that night. Giles climaxed soon afterwards and then withdrew. He lay back beside Spike and drew him into his arms, and neither bothered about the mess. Giles didn’t make Spike return to his own bed either, which was good, because Spike was already half asleep and had about as much muscle tone left as warm taffy.

The last words Spike heard before he fell asleep were, “Good boy.”

 

[Chapter 7](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/131217.html)

 

 


	7.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (7/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 7 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Seven**

 

Now that it had reawakened, Spike’s libido was trying to make up for lost time. During the day, while Giles was working, Spike would have a leisurely wank in bed or a quicker one in the shower, or sometimes both. Sometimes he went into Giles’s room so he would be more completely surrounded by the man’s scent, and he wanked there. As he stroked himself, he’d think about Giles, about Buffy and Dru and Angel and Harmony and the several dozen anonymous men and women he’d shagged over the years.

It helped pass the time.

When Giles came home they’d eat together, Giles usually munching on takeaway of some kind while Spike sipped at his blood and nibbled a bit on things that were crunchy or spicy or both.

If Giles was especially preoccupied, Spike would deliberately annoy him. He’d make snarky comments or play the CDs too loud or wave his arms about until he knocked something over. Then Giles would have to punish him, of course, and they’d both enjoy that.

And afterwards they’d shag. Sometimes fast and furiously, sometimes slow and leisurely. Either way was brilliant, as far as Spike was concerned. Giles was a good lover, considerate without being too careful, and with, of course, a Watcher’s knowledge of what might get a vampire off.

But no matter how much Spike wished otherwise, the sex couldn’t last forever. They had to sleep—Spike slept in Giles’s bed as often as his own—and Giles had to work.

One night, as they lay together in an exhausted, sticky heap, Spike said, “Are you going to Headquarters tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. We’ve been trying to find everything we can on Vis Legis. There are bits and pieces on them scattered throughout the library, but nothing comprehensive.”

“What exactly is it you mean to do to them?”

“Well, we need to find them first. They’ve been quite elusive.” Giles played absentmindedly with Spike’s right nipple, gently circling and occasionally giving a little tweak.

“And when you do find them?”

“We’ll attempt to convince them to leave the Slayers alone. And if we’re unsuccessful, we shall destroy them.”

The movement of Giles’s fingertips was a bit hypnotizing, but Spike tried to think clearly. “They’ve been around for ages, Rupert. Almost as long as the Council, I’d wager. They won’t be easy to beat.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Let me help.”

Giles was silent for a long time, and Spike was afraid he was going to say there was nothing Spike could do. Spike knew he was bloody useless, but hearing Giles say so would wound him.

Giles didn’t say so, however. Instead, his hand stopped its roving and he said, “Perhaps you can. You’re good with languages, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I can manage in a dozen or so human languages, about the same number of demon. Latin and ancient Greek and Hebrew as well.”

“Good. Most of the Council’s books aren’t in English. You can assist as we wade through them, trying to glean information.”

“Can’t do that, love. Blind, remember?”

Giles leaned over and kissed lightly at Spike’s eyelids. “Of course I remember. Malcolm Doucette is almost completely worthless and can barely manage English, let alone any other tongues. But he can read small passages to you, enough for you to get the gist of what they’re about. That would be enormously helpful to me and would finally put that boy to good use. But you’d have to come to Headquarters, of course. Could you stand to be there?”

“Yeah, I could.” If the alternative was to spend the foreseeable future doing nothing in Giles’s flat, he could manage. “But how will I get there?”

“It’s going to be very cloudy the next several days. They’re predicting rain. I think you should be safe. If need be, we can always hire a lorry, but I doubt that will be necessary.”

Spike smiled and, to show his appreciation, gave Giles an enormous and enthusiastic kiss.

Sometime later, after Giles had marveled at Spike’s ability to enliven his aging endurance, Spike lay half-asleep and sated in Giles’s embrace. “Sweet dreams,” he mumbled.

“Spike? Have you noticed you haven’t had any nightmares lately?”

Spike woke up enough to consider this. Giles was right. He’d been sleeping soundly ever since the night Giles told him that Spike wasn’t in danger of returning to that terrible place again. Spike wasn’t certain whether it was that revelation or the shagging and bed-sharing after that was responsible, and he didn’t much care.

He snuggled up more tightly against Giles’s warmth and murmured something wordless and content.

 

***

 

Spike could tell the Watchers were staring at him. He was able to avoid actually slipping into gameface, but he couldn’t hold back a small growl.

“I’m quite certain you all have something better to do than gawking,” Giles said loudly. More quietly, he muttered, “You’d think they’d never seen a vampire before.”

The library was an enormous space towards the back of the building. Spike sneezed from the dust as soon as they had entered and then stood still, trying to get his bearings in the echoing room. Giles went ahead of him, by the sound of it moving stacks of books from one place to another. Spike tensed as running footsteps approached.

“Mr. Giles, I—Oh!” The speaker sounded young and breathless, and his voice was slightly squeaky.

“Malcolm, this is Spike. Spike, Malcolm Doucette.” Giles was somewhere far across the room.

“Hello, Mal,” Spike said. He shined a slightly evil grin in Malcolm’s direction.

Malcolm swallowed audibly. “I, erm…hi.”

“Malcolm, you shall be assisting Spike. I want you to read to him the first line on each page or in each passage of these books.”

“But…but…I don’t understand them, sir.”

Giles sighed. “You don’t have to understand them. You’re Spike’s eyes today, not his brain.”

“I…oh. Okay.”

They settled themselves at a big round table and Malcolm began to read from the stack of books there. His pronunciation was horrible, of course, but when necessary Spike had him spell out a word or two, and it worked well enough.

Ordinarily, Spike would have been incredibly bored very soon. Patience had never been his strong suit, either in life or after. But it was so nice to be actually _doing_ something remotely constructive for a change that Spike became engrossed in the project and they made fast headway through the books. Besides, every now and then Giles would come by and give Spike a quick peck on the lips or a pleasant little grope, and Mal gasped in shock every time.

Spike found only one mention of Vis Legis all day, just a paragraph in a volume on medieval guilds and their relation to Kamaythes demon clans. It wasn’t a useful paragraph, but it was heartening to find _something_ at least, and it made Spike feel as if his labors were worthwhile. Right about when they found that bit, Malcolm began to warm up to Spike, so that by the time Giles decided to call it a day the boy was practically jumping up and down. “Will you come have a pint with me, Spike, Mr. Giles? Please? I’d very much fancy hearing about your adventures and were you really in a submarine during the war? Please?”

In a quiet voice, Giles said, “It’s up to you, Spike.”

Spike paused only a moment and then said, “All right. A pint or two would be brilliant.”

The three of them walked outside, where the sun had set but it was still lightly raining. Malcolm was nattering on blithely, but Giles sensed Spike’s hesitation and hooked their arms together. Spike hadn’t been anywhere lately, and it was frightening to walk through unknown territory, with all the strange smells and sounds around him. But he felt safe with Giles there.

The pub was nearby. Spike hadn’t been in an English pub in many decades, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar odors. Giles led them to a booth and ordered a round of Young’s, then he and Spike lit fags. “Did you know they’re talking about banning smoking in pubs?” Malcolm asked.

“Pfft. Never happen,” Spike said. “This isn’t bloody California.”

That led to a whole host of questions about California and then about the States in general. Malcolm had never been. Spike did most of the talking, while Giles kept an arm hooked over his shoulder and used his free hand to smoke and drink. By the time Spike heard Malcolm trying to stifle a yawn, Spike’s voice was hoarse from overuse.

Malcolm was weaving a bit alarmingly, so Spike and Giles walked him back to Headquarters, where he had a room, and then they made their way to Giles’s flat. Spike began to undress when they got inside, but Giles batted his hands away and did it himself, which made Spike smile.

“Did you enjoy your day?” Giles asked, running his palm down the center of Spike’s chest.

“I did. It was good to…get out.”

Giles gathered Spike close then, so that the fabric of his clothing pressed against Spike’s bare skin. “I was glad to have you there,” Giles said. “You’re going to be a great help, you know. And I expect you’ll be headlining in Malcolm’s fantasies for months to come.”

Spike snorted. “Barmy little git. It’s good you keep him locked up in the library. He’ll get himself killed otherwise.”

“He might learn, eventually. Even Andrew was doing passably well, before he decided to stay with Buffy.”

They stood for several minutes, just holding each other. Spike enjoyed listening to Giles’s heartbeat. It was so sure and steady.

“Spike, do you trust me?” Giles asked very quietly.

Spike knew better than to answer right away. “I…I reckon so. You’ve been brilliant, Rupert, and—“

“Come with me.” Giles took Spike’s hand and led him to Giles’s bedroom, then pressed down on his shoulders so Spike was sitting on the bed. Spike heard him rummaging in the cupboard for a few moments before he returned.

“Lie on your back,” he ordered, and Spike did, wondering what Giles had in mind. Giles pushed and tugged at him a bit to position him and then lifted Spike’s left wrist to the headboard. He tied it there very tightly. Spike didn’t resist as he did the same with his right wrist, and then he wasn’t surprised when Giles bound his ankles to the corners of the footboard.

But when Spike was securely fastened like that, panic began to seep in slowly, especially when Giles walked away again. “Rupert?” he said, trying not to sound pathetic.

“Do you trust me, Spike?” Giles said when he returned.

“Yes?” It came out sounding much more like a question than an answer, and Giles tutted slightly.

Giles smoothed Spike’s hair away from his brow. “I will not harm you, Spike. And even if I wished to, you are so very strong.”

“’M not.”

Giles didn’t answer. Instead, he sat on the mattress beside Spike. He gently but firmly stuck a large plastic ball between Spike’s teeth. It had a hole in the center so Spike could breathe through it, but of course he couldn’t speak or make anything but muffled noises. If he could have talked, he would have asked Giles where the bondage gear was from. Had he always owned it or was it new, specially for Spike?

Giles kissed Spike’s forehead and then placed some sort of clip on Spike’s nose. Spike could still breathe, but he couldn’t smell anything anymore, and he began to tremble. Giles smoothed along his cheek and flank. “Trust me,” he whispered. “Trust yourself.” And then he stuck something soft in Spike’s ears, which blocked almost all sounds. Spike began to thrash then, and even more so a moment later when Giles tied a blindfold around his face, blocking what little vision remained to him.

With nearly all his senses gone, Spike wiggled and screamed and tried to break free, but he couldn’t. He could feel blood trickling down his wrists where the ropes dug in.

Eventually he tired himself out, and he stilled. He was breathing very hard through the tiny hole in the gag. And then a warm, familiar hand landed on his chest. Fingers traced the outlines of his scars and then teased at his nipples, first his left and then his right, until they were hard and little shivery tingles of pleasure radiated across his torso. The fingers moved south, then, drawing a line down the center of his body, following the taut ridges of his abdominal muscles, dipping into his navel. Then they combed through his pubic hair, stretching the wiry little hairs out and making them spring back.

By then Spike’s cock was hard and he’d forgotten about his panic. His entire world centered around the small bits where skin touched skin. The furrows under his hipbones. The tender skin behind his knees. The soles of his feet. Everywhere but where he most wanted it, actually, and if it weren’t for the gag he would have been begging.

But Giles was ruthless. He slowly tickled along the length of each leg. He measured the length of every rib. He followed the contours of collarbones and used his fingernails to map the biggest veins and arteries.

Even with his ears plugged, Spike could hear his own constant moaning, and he arched his hips upward as high as he could.

Giles was evil and he was trying to dust him. That was the only explanation, because the mattress moved slightly and the fingers were now accompanied by lips and tongue. Giles kissed and licked every bit of Spike’s body, it seemed, and sometimes he nibbled a bit as well, but he still didn’t touch Spike’s cock or ballsac or hole, and he only puffed air onto Spike’s neck, not quite biting there.

When Giles spent more time playing with Spike’s nipples, sucking on one while pinching at the other, Spike began thrashing about again, this time not from fear but from another kind of desperation altogether. He could feel tears slipping from the corners of his eyes and running out from under the mask, down the sides of his face. Giles repositioned himself again, tonguing at the crease where Spike’s leg met his body. It was so close and not quite close enough, and Spike roared into the gag and, with one frantic lurch, tore through the ropes at his wrists, wrenching his hands free. Giles immediately grabbed Spike’s cock and stroked it once, twice, three times, and Spike came so hard it felt as if his head were exploding and he nearly blacked out.

When Spike came to his senses again, Giles was gently removing the mask and earplugs and freeing Spike’s nose and mouth. He had to use a knife to get all the ropes free, and then he cleaned the bloody bits with a damp flannel and rubbed in some sort of ointment that felt soothing and cool. Finally, then, he climbed into bed and pulled up the blankets, then wrapped his arms around Spike’s yielding form.

“You see?” he murmured into Spike’s ear. “Strong.”

Spike couldn’t help chuckling a bit into Giles’s chest. “You’re daft,” he said contentedly.

Giles kissed the top of his head. “Perhaps I am.”

 

[Chapter 8](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/131563.html)

 


	8.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (8/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 8 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Eight**

 

Their time in the library was only sporadically fruitful. They counted it a good day when they could find a passage or two about Vis Legis; many days they found nothing at all. Meanwhile, Giles said, Slayers were being killed, just picked off one by one, and Buffy and her lot refused to listen to warnings from the Council. In desperation, Giles even tried speaking with Willow and Xander, but although they were both clearly pleased to hear from him, neither was optimistic about convincing Buffy to change her ways.

So in the meantime they read. Sometimes Giles left Spike and Malcolm in the library while he went off to try to extract information from various sources. He often came back from these excursions smelling of blood, and Mal would shy away from him for the remainder of the day.

Malcolm himself had improved slightly. At least now Spike could generally make out which language the boy was trying to stutter out. Malcolm would read and Spike would pace around the big room, translating aloud. Some of the things were quite interesting, although they had nothing to do with their current problem, and Spike wished he could read them himself. Giles would remain seated, quietly making his way through his own stacks of books, but always patting or stroking Spike in some way when Spike’s perambulations brought him near.

They often worked well into the evenings, and on one of those occasions Giles startled Spike and Malcolm by suddenly swearing loudly. “Something wrong, love?” Spike asked, concerned.

Giles sighed. “I’m right in the middle of Dunthorpe’s _Universitas_ and I’ve realized I’ve left the second volume at home. I need it for the cross-references. Spike, would you mind fetching it for me? It’s on the kitchen counter near the toaster.”

Spike swallowed. “Alone?” he said.

“I’ll go with,” said Malcolm.

But Giles said, “No, Malcolm. I need you to reshelve that stack over there and find where the third volume of Dunthorpe has been misplaced. Spike will be fine by himself. It’s well past dark and he’s made the journey dozens of times now.”

Spike had, but always with Giles at his side. But he didn’t want to look like a coward, not in front of Mal, the one human who looked up to him as a hero. So Spike took Giles’s house keys and made his way out of Headquarters by himself. The Watchers were used to his presence by now, and while none of them seemed especially thrilled, at least they’d stopped standing about and staring.

The streets were quiet this time of night. Spike feigned confidence as he made his way towards the flat, but in reality he was straining his nose and ears for anything that might be threatening. As it turned out, the most threatening thing he passed was a pair of what sounded like teenage girls who giggled as he walked by, so he made it to the flat safely. Still, once he was inside and the door was shut behind him, he spent several minutes leaning against it, trying to collect himself.

The book was exactly where Giles said it would be. Spike grabbed it, stood in front of the door and counted to ten, and then went back outside.

The walk back to Headquarters was completely uneventful.

Giles took the book from Spike with an absent-minded thanks, as if Spike hadn’t just accomplished a minor miracle. But Spike didn’t care. He felt chuffed enough that he grabbed Mal’s shoulders and spun the flustered boy around while singing _Anarchy in the UK_, until Malcolm was snorting with laughter and Giles snapped, “Do be quiet!”

 

 

***

 

It was very late—probably nearly dawn, Spike thought—and Giles had fallen asleep over his pile of books. Two days earlier reports had come in of a half dozen Slayers killed in Oslo. Giles had refused to return to his flat after that and had tried to work nonstop. Earlier in the evening, Spike had gone back for a change of clothes for each of them and to swig some blood. He and Malcolm both had had to harangue Giles to get him to eat the sandwiches Mal had fetched for him.

Giles had finally collapsed an hour or so ago, and Spike had gently set his specs aside. Spike himself wasn’t that tired—he’d slept enough for several lifetimes lately, it seemed—and Mal had had a few short catnaps. So the two of them had continued working, their voices a constant back and forth over Giles’s soft snores.

Spike bent over Giles and kissed his temple. “Huh?” Giles said, startling slightly.

“Rupert, I think we found something.”

Giles snapped upright, instantly wide awake, it seemed. “What? What did you find?”

“Well, hand it over, whelp.”

Malcolm passed the book to Giles and there was a tense silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Eventually, though, Giles stood, grabbed Spike’s head in both hands, and gave him a hearty kiss on the mouth. “I think you’ve found it, Spike!”

What Spike had found—by accident much more than design—was an entire chapter on Vis Legis. It was in a slim volume from the seventeenth century, with a tooled leather cover that felt oily to the touch, and it was written in very bad Latin. There was a chapter on the Slayers and the Watchers Council, two on obscure demon-fighting groups Spike had never heard of, and which had probably been extinct since before he was born, and one on Vis Legis.

As they rushed home to beat the sunrise, Giles explained what the book had said. Spike had only the faintest of ideas of the contents himself; as soon as he’d realized what the chapter was about, he’d stopped Malcolm’s laborious reading and awoken Giles. Giles himself had only had time to skim, but what he’d seen had made him elated.

“There’s nothing supernatural about Vis Legis. They’re just humans, very much like Watchers, I suppose. We’ve been aware of that for quite some time. But we’ve also known that they make limited use of magics. They’re not witches, not in the ordinary sense, but they’re quite adept at finding those whom they consider their enemies, and at times they’ve used various spells to defeat them. I believe that’s how they killed those girls in Norway.” His voice dropped for the last sentence and became less animated. Spike lightly bonked their shoulders together in a silent show of understanding.

“Yes. Well,” Giles continued. “According to this book, Vis Legis hasn’t always had such magical assistance. But sometime in the late fifteen hundreds they did battle with a coven in Spain. They must have acquired some…tools when they defeated the coven.”

By now they were climbing the stairs to Giles’s flat. Giles unlocked the door and Spike followed him in. They both began to shed their clothes, Giles still talking excitedly. “So if we can discover where these magical devices are, or even _what_ they are, we stand a good chance of leaving the organization defenseless.”

“So you can wipe them out,” Spike said, shoving his jeans off.

“So we can ensure they don’t kill any more Slayers. Or whomever else they decide is immoral next time.”

The discovery seemed to have given Giles fresh energy. He didn’t even bother dragging Spike into a bedroom. He only pushed on Spike’s shoulders until Spike was on his knees, and then Spike was more than happy to take Giles’s erect cock in his mouth. While Spike sucked and licked, Giles ran fingers through his hair and called him his lovely boy, his good boy, his clever boy, and the words themselves set Spike so close to the edge that he took his own cock in his left hand and tugged on it a few times and then he was shooting his spend onto his own chest.

“Oh yes, like _that_,” Giles moaned and he came as well. The taste of him was now very familiar in Spike’s mouth. Spike stood and they kissed, and then they finally did get into bed, their limbs all twisted together comfortably. They both fell asleep very quickly.

 

***

 

“Oi, Rupert. I’m the blind one. Headquarters is that way.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I have a surprise for you, and it’s this way.”

“Surprise?” In Spike’s experience, the surprises he received were very rarely pleasant ones.

“Yes.” Giles tugged at his arm impatiently. “Come along, Spike.”

They walked another three blocks in silence. There was a touch of warmth in the air that suggested summer would arrive soon. Spike wouldn’t mind the heat, but he didn’t much fancy the short nights. In Sunnydale and then LA, he’d become used to being able to move about during the day, what with tunnels and necrotinting and the like, and he missed that. London surely had tunnels as well, but he wasn’t inclined to explore them without vision, and Giles was too busy with tracking down Vis Legis to play guide dog.

Giles pulled him inside a building, where their footsteps were muffled by carpeting. “The door’s almost straight ahead,” Giles said. “Perhaps five feet to the right.”

As Spike wondered why the narration, Giles opened the door in question and they went down a flight of stairs. Here the floor was wood. Keys jangled and a lock was opened, and Giles urged him in through a doorway. They both stood there a moment.

“Well?” Spike finally said, thoroughly bewildered.

“This is the surprise. It’s your own flat.”

Spike stood, shocked into silence.

But Giles nattered on. “It’s owned by the Council as well, so rent isn’t a worry. They’ve agreed to pay you a salary. It’s not much, but I expect it will be enough. I’ve arranged for your blood to be delivered here twice weekly. There are no windows, so sunlight isn’t an issue, and it’s quite nicely furnished. Television, CD player with iPod dock…I’m thinking perhaps you might like a computer as well, one that has software for the blind.”

Spike finally found his voice, although it was very hoarse. “But I thought you wanted…. We were….” He couldn’t finish a sentence.

Giles grasped Spike’s shoulders firmly. “I _do_ want you, dear boy. I want you very much.”

Spike wrenched himself away. “Want what? Want to fuck me now and then, without the nuisance of having me about all the time?” He would have marched off if he weren’t entirely likely to collide with things in the process.

But Giles grabbed him again. “You’re not a nuisance to have about. Noisy at times, and I do wish you’d pick up your towels, but never a nuisance.”

“Then why…?”

“I found you when you were very…vulnerable. You’ve had no opportunity since to determine if this…if _I_ am truly what you want.”

“You are,” Spike whispered.

“I know you believe so now. And I don’t doubt your ability to love. Really, your dedication is quite extraordinary. I’ve seen it with Drusilla. And with Buffy, whom you cared for enough to fight for your soul. Extraordinary! But you must determine whether you want me, or simply need me.”

A part of Spike recognized the good sense in what Giles was saying. Besides, the man didn’t deserve to be merely an instrument for Spike’s own comfort. But he still felt frightened and rejected, and he turned his head away. “I can’t,” he said.

“You can. You can manage just fine in your flat, and you know how to get to Headquarters and my place. I’ll give you a mobile phone and you can ring me any time you want, or you can come by for a visit.”

“I’m bloody _blind_!” Spike roared.

Giles’s voice was still calm. “Yes. But thousands of humans manage perfectly well without their eyesight, and you have much better hearing and smell than they do. You’re stronger and faster as well. You can do this, Spike.”

Spike slumped. “I don’t want to,” he mumbled miserably. He couldn’t. He just didn’t have the strength in him to begin alone once more.

“You must.” Giles stroked Spike’s arm soothingly. “Even if you decide you do really want me…. Spike, I’m not a young man any longer, and I’m employed in a dangerous profession. You, on the other hand, are impossible to get rid of.”

He pulled Spike into his embrace and, after a moment of standing stiffly, Spike gave in and molded himself against the larger body. “Can we still shag?” he asked.

Giles laughed. “That would be lovely. But now I’m going to leave you to get settled. I’ll be at Headquarters if you’d like to come by later, all right?”

Spike nodded, and Giles drew away. He lifted Spike’s hand and placed a set of keys there. “I’ve left you a housewarming gift in the bedroom. I think you’ll like it.”

They kissed, and it was a nice kiss, too, but far too short. Then Giles was gone.

It was, Spike soon discovered, quite a nice flat, not even in the same league as the last basement. The main room contained a small but fully equipped kitchen, and the fridge was already stocked with beer and blood. There was also a sitting area with very comfortable furniture, but not so much of it that Spike would be constantly walking into things. The telly was there and the CD player that Giles had promised. There was a small stack of CDs beside it, and when Spike stuck one in the player, he smiled when the Ramones began to play. The floors were wood, but there were a few thick rugs scattered about. The loo had a very deep bathtub as well as a shower. The bedroom was quite small, but the bed was a big one, with a springy mattress and scrolled iron posts. There was a chest of drawers as well, and it contained several sets of clothing.

His pressie from Giles was on the bed. A pair of Docs. He whooped and kicked off the horrible trainers he’d been wearing all these months, then slid the boots on instead. Oh, that felt satisfying. Next to the Docs was a jacket, a long leather one that felt remarkably like his old duster when he wrapped himself inside it. It didn’t smell right yet—that would take some time—but with the boots and jacket on he felt more like himself than he had in ages.

He wondered whether he could manage to bleach his hair again.

 

[Chapter 9](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/131923.html)

 


	9.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (9/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 9 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Nine**

 

Spike didn’t know what time Giles went to headquarters every day, only that by the time Spike arrived shortly after sunset, Giles had already been there for hours, diligently sifting through more books. His search was more focused now that they knew about Vis Legis and the magic, but it was still progressing slowly, and every time they received a report of another dead Slayer Giles grew a little more distressed, a little more frantic.

Spike and Malcolm did what they could, of course, but that wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough to save any girls.

Spike would head back to his flat before the sun rose, and if he was very persistent, he could persuade Giles to leave then as well. Sometimes Giles would even walk Spike to his flat and would come inside for a quick and exhausted shag before heading home.

The few nights Spike didn’t find Giles at Headquarters, he found him at Sir George’s Arms instead, quietly and thoroughly pickling himself in scotch. “You can’t go on like this, pet,” Spike said one night, his own glass nestled comfortably in his hand. “Let one of the others of that tweedy lot of ponces take over for a bit. Go on holiday. Or lock yourself in my flat and shag us _both_ blind.”

“Slayers are dying,” Giles snapped. “Next time it might be Bu--.” He stopped and took a drink.

Spike patted Giles’s free hand. “I know, love. But you won’t be of any use to anyone if you use yourself up like this. Don’t you trust the others to help?”

Giles shouted, “I don’t trust bloody anyone!”

Spike put down his empty glass and stood. “Right, then, mate. You make a lovely martyr.”

He stomped all the way home, and didn’t even realize he hadn’t skulked around corners and counted every step until he was closing his door behind himself.

 

***

 

Spike didn’t return to Headquarters for several days after that. But his bleeding conscience nagged at him, reminding him of Slayers who might need saving, and he nearly went mad, rattling around with no real purpose. So he made his way back to the library, where Giles seemed pleased and perhaps even a bit relieved to see him again. Malcolm, on the other hand, was clearly ecstatic to have him back, and he dragged Spike around the room, chattering a mile a minute.

After an hour or so, Giles sent Malcolm to fetch some tea, and he pulled Spike aside. He lightly stroked Spike’s face, as if _he_ were the one who couldn’t see. “Spike, I’m afraid Malcolm’s doing more harm than good today. I can’t concentrate with him going on and on.”

“I could bite the little nancy. That would shut him up.”

“Tempting, but I have a better idea. Have him take you to the practice room and you two can spar.”

“Spar? Rupert, I’m—“

“Yes, yes, I know. Your lack of vision might make the contest slightly more even. Seriously, Spike, the boy is nearly hopeless. Even I could beat him blindfolded. Please, will you try to teach him something? It might keep him alive a bit longer.”

Reluctantly, Spike agreed. When Mal came back and was told of the scheme, he nearly keeled over with enthusiasm. “Spike is going to teach me to fight? Oh, that’s brilliant! Thank you! I shall work very hard at it, and you mustn’t feel as if you need to hold back with me, Spike, because—“

“Yeah, that’s fine, junior. Let’s go, all right?”

The training room was on the third floor. Spike had the impression it might once have been a ballroom, back when this was a private home. He could nearly smell spilled wine and crushed flowers over the more recent scents of sweat and rubber mats.

Malcolm ran off to his room to change into more suitable clothes, while Spike paced the room to get his bearings. It was large, of course, and there were few obstacles. Those mats were all piled in a heap in one corner, and a trio of punching bags hung from the ceiling along one side of the room. Spike hit at one of them, enjoying the satisfying smack of a fist into something solid. It had been too long since he fought.

The door burst open and Spike crouched protectively before he realized from the scent of Darjeeling and Jaffa cakes that it was Malcolm. “I’m ready!” Mal announced, jogging toward him.

“Brilliant,” Spike muttered, and then sighed. “We’ll begin with some defensive moves, yeah?”

It didn’t work well at first. Spike couldn’t see more of his target than a vague blur, so he often ended up misjudging his kicks and lunges, while Mal was as clumsy as Xander Harris on a bad day. But the boy took a beating with good grace, never complaining even when the blows were obviously painful, and Spike had to give him points for that.

Still, Spike was going to give the whole thing up as a bad idea, and he was standing and rubbing at his eyes tiredly, when he felt a rustle behind him. There was a tiny swish of air across his skin, the thick smell of sweaty Malcolm, and Spike ducked and swung and pulled the boy into a precise and careful headlock. “Would’ve pulled your skull off in a moment more,” Spike said, releasing him. But now he had an idea.

“Let’s have another go,” he said. This time, though, he kept his eyelids closed and gave up his poor attempts to track Mal by sight. He relied instead on his other senses, and found that he could easily tell not only where the boy was, but how he was moving, and what was the best way to catch him—or avoid being caught, as the case might be. In fact, he could tell so easily that he found himself purposely easing back and letting the whelp get some blows in, just so he wouldn’t feel too discouraged.

They stopped when Malcolm was collapsed on the floor, too exhausted and out of breath and sore to get up. Spike felt a bit knackered himself. But he was so elated at his rediscovered fighting skills that he lifted Malcolm up, swooped the laughing boy into his arms, and had an impromptu little dance.

Giles was still working when they trooped back into the library, and he chuckled at their disheveled conditions. “How did it go?”

“It was bloody brilliant, Mr. Giles! You should see him move! He’s so fast, like this—zhoop!—and strong, and he taught me these moves and—“

“Yes, I’ve seen Spike fight before, many times. Been nearly killed by him myself, actually.”

Mal gasped—he’d likely forgotten Spike had long fought for the other side—and then he was back to bouncing about. “Can we do it again tomorrow, Mr. Giles? Please?”

“That’s up to Spike.”

Mal grabbed Spike’s arm. “Can we?”

“Yeah, I reckon we could,” Spike said, feigning disinterest. Malcolm whooped in happiness and ran off.

“Thank you,” Giles said when he was gone.

Spike bent over to place his mouth near Giles’s ear. “Ta, love,” he said, and then turned his head a bit for a long, heartfelt kiss.

 

***

 

“This is a nasty one,” Giles said, kissing the healing wound between Spike’s ribs.

“Yeah. I like to let the bloke get in a good one now and then. He’s improving. We were using a plastic stake today.”

Giles kissed him again. “You let him stake you? Didn’t it hurt?”

“Was a bit more than a tickle,” Spike admitted. “But I have to let him play like it’s real, don’t I? Let him really know how it feels to slide that weapon home. Besides, I’ve felt worse. It’ll mend.”

“’Slide the weapon home,’ is it? Should I be jealous?”

“Depends. What’ll get me more thoroughly shagged?”

Giles suddenly gave Spike’s nipple a vicious pinch, making Spike gasp and curve his back. “You’ll be thoroughly shagged one way or the other, my boy. The question is whether there shall be a spanking first.”

Spike bucked Giles off him, rolled over onto his belly, and then waggled his arse in what he hoped was an enticing way. “There was loads of weapons sliding. Not to mention thrusting and grappling and—“ his sentence concluded with a yelp as Giles swatted his rump very hard.

 

 

***

 

Malcolm had let loose with an arrow, which lodged in Spike’s left shoulder, when Giles came in. Malcolm immediately dropped the crossbow and started stuttering apologies, while Giles came rushing over to tend to Spike.

“You’re letting him _shoot_ you?” Giles asked incredulously, yanking the arrow free.

Spike grunted with pain. “They’re metal, love. Can’t do much damage unless he manages to hit my eye. And even then, well, no major loss.”

“I didn’t mean for you to play target, Spike.”

“Well, a paper target doesn’t move about like a real demon, does it? He needs real practice, Rupert, not just playing about. And he’s getting better, too.”

“Thanks, Spike!” Mal chimed in.

“I don’t care much for you ending up as a…a pincushion,” Giles said, ignoring Malcolm and inspecting Spike’s wound closely.

“Don’t fancy it much myself. But this could save his life someday.”

Giles made a _humph_ sound but didn’t argue the point. “Come on, Spike. I need to speak with you.”

Spike put on his duster and, while Mal stayed behind to tidy up, Spike and Giles walked down the stairs and out the door. “You should arrange to get the whelp in on some real fighting soon. Nothing big yet, perhaps a fledge or two.”

“You think he’s ready?”

They turned a corner, and Spike realized they were heading for Sir George’s. “Dunno. He has to be out in the field sometime, Rupert.”

Giles sighed. “I know. It’s only…he’s so young. He still thinks it’s all some sort of grand adventure. He’s never seen true evil, he has no idea what it’s like to see someone you care about die. To try your bloody hardest and still know it’s not going to be enough to save everyone.”

“You have to let him grow up eventually, Watcher. Besides, it’s not your—not _his_ sodding job to save everyone, is it? But if you save some—hell, if you save only one—that’s worth something, innit? Certainly worth something to the one you saved.” He squeezed Giles’s hand tightly and Giles squeezed back.

A few minutes later they reached the pub. Giles found them a table at the back and ordered them a round. He waited until the drinks arrived to tell Spike what was on his mind. “I’m going to Budapest,” he announced.

Spike took a long swallow of his ale. “Taking that holiday I mentioned?” He managed to keep his voice even.

“I’ve good reason to believe that’s where Vis Legis is keeping the items they took from those witches.”

“When do we leave?”

“We don’t. I leave in two days.”

“Right. Forgot for a moment how useless I am.” Spike slammed down his empty glass and stood to leave, but Giles grabbed his wrist.

“You know perfectly well you’re far from useless. But this is an undertaking that calls for stealth, not strength or speed. I’m afraid your poor vision would be a handicap and, frankly, covertness was never your forte even when you could see.”

Spike allowed Giles to pull him back down to his chair, but didn’t say anything.

“Also, I need you here,” Giles continued. “I need you to continue to work with Malcolm, both in the library and in the training room. And I need you to relay to me any news. I can’t rely on anyone else here.”

Somebody wearing too much cheap perfume came by with fresh glasses. Spike stared up over the bar, where he could just make out the movements of a football match on the television screen. It was the World Cup, and, according to the announcers, Portugal was kicking Angola’s arse.

“You can’t go by yourself,” Spike finally said.

“I can. I’ve been by myself most of my life, Spike.”

“You don’t have to be.”

Giles reached over and grasped one of Spike’s hands in both of his. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll get this business with Vis Legis sorted, and if you still want me, we’ll dispense with the separate flats. Perhaps I’ll retire and we can get out of this dismal city. I own a house near Bath, you know. Or we could go somewhere else. Anywhere you like.”

“If you don’t get yourself killed,” Spike said sourly.

“Well, there’s that. But there’s always going to be that, Spike. I’m human.”

Spike pulled one hand away and lifted his glass to his lips. “Could turn you,” he said quietly, then took a big gulp of his ale. “Could find a way to stick your soul on, and then—“

“Spike. No. Thank you, but no.”

“You’d make a lovely vampire.”

Giles chuckled. “Perhaps I would. But I’d prefer to remain human, pesky mortality and all.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. They finished their drinks and walked to Spike’s flat. They shagged—no, Spike thought. They made love. In a more leisurely way than they had in some time. And for the first time, Giles spent the night in Spike’s flat, in Spike’s bed, snoring softly in Spike’s arms while Spike lay awake, thinking about eternity.

 

[Chapter 10](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/132209.html)

 


	10.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (10/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 10 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Ten**

 

Spike listened to the car pull away from the curb and, for the tenth or eleventh time, patted his pocket to make sure the mobile phone was still there. It was his lifeline to Giles. Giles had promised to call as soon as his plane landed at Ferihegyi Airport. He had a room waiting for him at the Hotel Gellért, and he suspected the items he sought were very nearby.

It was killing Spike to sit around and do nothing but the sun would keep him indoors for several more hours. So he paced around his flat, listening to a John le Carré novel on his iPod. When his phone finally did ring—or, more precisely, play “London Calling”—he fumbled for it and dropped it and then had to feel for it on the floor.

“You’re there?” he demanded as soon as he got the thing flipped open.

“I’m here. My room is nice. Lovely view of the Danube.”

“Rupert—“

“I’m fine. I’m going to do just a bit of checking about now, before sunset, and then in the morning I can search more thoroughly. I believe the things are in a cave in Gellért Hill.”

“How’s your Hungarian, Rupert?”

“Erm, rusty. Yours?”

“_Baszd meg_. Try that if you get in a jam.”

“And that phrase would be helpful, would it?” Giles sounded skeptical.

“Of course.”

“If it’s not, I shall have to punish you when I return.”

Spike’s cock twitched happily. “I’ll be counting on it, Watcher,” he said, and then rang off.

That night, he and Malcolm sparred until the poor boy was nothing but a breathless, sweaty heap of bruises, and then Spike continued, punching and kicking at the bags so hard he knocked two of them off their chains. Then he waited for Malcolm to shower and dress, and they spent an hour or two in the library, numbly going through phrase after meaningless phrase.

When Mal tried for the third time to read a passage from some moldy tome, and for the third time his pronunciation was so poor Spike couldn’t even place the language, Spike growled and snatched the book away, then threw it across the room. “Bugger this!” he shouted.

“I’m sorry!” Malcolm squeaked.

With a great deal of difficulty, Spike reined in his temper. “’S not your fault, whelp. Just a little on edge tonight.”

“I know. I just—I know where McCreary hides his whiskey. Would you like some?”

Spike smiled. “Now you’re talking.”

Malcolm scuttled away and came back soon after. Spike heard the clink of glass on glass, and Mal pressed a drink into his hand. Spike swallowed a mouthful. “Good shite.”

“Lagavulin.”

“Old McCreary won’t be pleased.”

Mal snorted dismissively. “McCreary can bugger off. Old plonker was trying to convince the Council to have you dusted a few months back, you know.”

“Yeah? How’d that go?”

“Mr. Giles said if any of them touches you with so much as a bloody toothpick he’ll feed their innards to a Tharanoth demon.”

Spike laughed and held out his glass. “Give us a refill, love.”

By the time they finished off the bottle they were slumped in chairs, Malcolm humming something under his breath that Spike feared was the Ketchup Song. “Spike?” Malcolm said.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve never seen a vampire in vampire face.”

“Best hope you never do, junior. It’s not good news.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Can I see you with the fangs?”

“’M not here for show and tell, boy.”

“Please?”

Spike sighed. Even though he couldn’t see them, he could almost feel Malcolm’s puppy dog eyes boring into him, the way the Bit’s used to. “Fine.” He shifted his face, and it actually was quite nice to feel his fangs drop and the ridges form on his face. It had been a long time.

“Blimey!”

“Likely looks even uglier with the scars, yeah? And my eyes—usually they’d be yellow. Now, I don’t know.”

Malcolm walked over and bent close to stare at Spike’s face. “They’re still yellow. Just—cloudy. And you’re not ugly.”

He leaned in just a bit closer, and Spike shot his hands out and grabbed the boy’s collar. “See these fangs? They can tear out your throat as easy as you bite into an apple. Hope that you’re never this close to a set of fangs again.” He let go, and Malcolm fell back a bit.

“All right, Spike. But you look bloody brilliant like this. Terrifying.”

Spike grinned, knowing it made his teeth glint in the light, and sat back in his chair.

 

***

 

_London_ _ calling to the underworld_

_Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls._

Spike groped around on the bedside table until he found the mobile phone and flipped it open. “Budapest calling, not London,” he yawned into it.

“Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep at two in the afternoon.”

“Oi. Creature of darkness here, remember?”

“Yes.” Something roared behind Giles. It sounded like a bus.

“Have you found your magic knickknacks?”

“Not yet. But I’ve a good idea where they are.”

Spike stretched. “You said yesterday. Caves.”

“Yes, but there are several. Now I know which one. It’s only getting to it that will be a bit…tricky.”

“You’ll be careful?”

“Of course.” This time someone in Hungary honked their horn.

Spike moved his free hand under the blankets and grasped his half-hard cock. “’M here all alone, Rupert, with nobody to take care of my little problem. Think you could talk me through it?”

“I am sitting at a sidewalk café, surrounded by dozens of people, Spike. I don’t think so.”

“Do it in English, then. They won’t understand a word.”

Giles chuckled. “Everybody speaks English, Spike. Didn’t you know?”

Spike sped his movements a bit. “Latin, then. Nobody’ll have a clue what you’re on about.”

“There is nothing the least bit sexy about Latin, boy.”

At the word “boy,” a dollop of precome moistened the head of Spike’s cock. “_Erit; haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae, et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor. Cedimus, an subitum luctando accendimus ignem? Cedamus! leve fit, quod bene fertur, onus.”_

Giles laughed so loudly that Spike imagined the other patrons must be staring at him. “I take it back. Very sexy.”

“Ovid’s words, not mine. I could only manage crap poetry in my native tongue.”

“But it’s your voice.”

“You like my voice, do you?” His strokes came faster now, and he realized this wouldn’t take long at all.

Giles’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t want anyone near to hear. “I adore your voice, my boy. I adore your mouth. Your clever tongue. The way you use it so well.”

Spike moaned.

“I love your hands, Spike. Your strong, nimble fingers, so graceful, so cool against overheated skin.”

Now Spike pictured Giles shifting in his seat a bit, perhaps moving his chair farther under the table so the bulge in his trousers would be less apparent. The customers nearby leaning a bit closer, trying to hear better, wondering if that proper-looking English bloke was really saying what they thought he was saying.

“I love your arse, Spike. So round and firm, so inviting. It colors so nicely when it’s swatted, and your skin is as soft as fine suede. I love your cock, with its little scars, and that bend it has near the end, and how it feels when it’s all soft in my hand and then becomes hard. And your bollock—fits in my mouth just right, doesn’t it, my boy? The taste of you, like a copper penny.”

Again, Spike moaned. He was very close now. “Rupert…Christ….”

“I love the way you try to hide your insecurities behind a swagger, and the way your face displays every emotion you’re feeling, like a billboard. I love the way you have the heart of a demon and the soul of a poet. I love you, my boy. I love you.”

At those words, a cold fire exploded in Spike’s belly and he came, his tepid spend soaking his hand and chest and the bedclothes.

“Christ,” he said when he could speak again.

“I meant it.”

He was crying, damn it, crying again like some kind of dozy cow, and he couldn’t help it, because when had someone honestly said that to him? “Me too,” Spike sniffled. “Don’t get yourself killed, Watcher, or I swear I’ll follow you to the afterlife and drag you back here myself.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment, Spike.”

 

***

 

Spike showered and paced, and drank some blood and paced, and listened to The Damned and paced. When the sun set and Giles still hadn’t rung again, Spike swore in every language he knew and hurled a lamp at the wall.

“Fucking of course,” he growled, kicking at the shards on the floor and then stomping them into dust. “Stupid bloody Watcher and his stupid bloody poncy ‘I love you,’ and of course now he’s gone missing.”

He tried ringing Giles somewhere around a thousand times, but at two in the morning there was still no answer, and Spike knew it was a lost cause. Before he could demolish his flat completely, he threw on his duster and ran out into the night.

Headquarters was usually a fifteen minute walk away. Spike made it in a bit over five. He pounded on the front door until someone let him in—that twat Addington by the smell of her—and then ran up the stairs until he was outside Malcolm’s room. “Malcolm? Get up! Come on, come on!”

He heard several doors opening and ignored them, but then Malcolm’s opened as well, and the boy stood in front of him, no doubt gawping spectacularly. “Spike?”

“Get your kit on, whelp. Rupert needs us.”

 

[Chapter 11](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/132405.html)

 


	11.  Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [trust](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/trust)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Trust (11/11)**_  
**Title:** Trust   
**Chapter:** 11 of 11    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash, light BDSM   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Physically and psychologically damaged, Spike struggles to exist until an unlikely savior comes along. Can they both learn to trust in themselves and each other?   
**AN:**  This is dedicated to the wonderful[](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) , who kindly gave me the plot bunny. The fic is complete and I'll post one or two chapters a day. Many thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  for the perfect banner!   
    
Previous chapters [here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Trust&filter=all)

**The final chapter. Thank you all for reading, and huge thanks again to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)  and [](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/profile)[**ripperspet**](http://ripperspet.livejournal.com/) !**

ETA: Beautiful new banner by [](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/profile)[**angelstoy**](http://angelstoy.livejournal.com/)  added at the end. Thank you, my dear!!

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000ac5rp/)  
---  
  
**Eleven**

 

 

Malcolm took Spike to Giles’s office and then dug out Giles’s phone book. It was fortunate the Watcher hadn’t quite entered the 21st century; he still kept his contacts the old-fashioned way, in paper and ink. Spike thought for several minutes, told Mal what name to look up, and waited for the boy to dial. Malcolm handed the phone over and Spike took a deep breath and tried to steel himself.

“Hmm? Whozit?” came a very sleepy voice at the other end.

“Hello, Buffy.”

The silence was so long he’d have suspected they were disconnected, if it weren’t for the fact that he could hear her breaths.

“What the hell kind of joke is this! This is so not funny! When I find out who you are I’m gonna rip—“

“Buffy! Buffy! It’s me. It really is.”

Another long pause, and then a tiny voice, “Spike?”

He sighed. “Yeah, love.”

“Are you….”

“I’m alive. Ish. I reckon I’ve had about three resurrections since we last spoke. It’s a long tale that I’ll be happy to tell you later. But I need your help now. It’s Rupert.”

“Giles? What did he—Did he try to stake you again?”

Spike laughed without humor. “No, love. He’s in trouble. We need your help. Please.”

“Giles is—What’s going on, Spike?”

He felt for her, he really did. Poor girl shaken out of sleep to news that Spike wasn’t dust and Giles needed rescuing. It’d be a bit much for anyone. But he didn’t have time for sympathy right now. “Giles is missing. I know where he is, more or less, but I can’t get him myself.” Assuming it wasn’t already too late, his mind unhelpfully added. “We need to act fast.”

Perhaps she could hear the desperation in his voice. “Where are you?”

“London. Watchers Headquarters.”

“You’re at Watchers—Okay. I bet this is a good story, too. But hang on. I’m gonna go talk to Willow.”

“Is she there? Thought she was in Rome.”

“She was. But we’ve been having some problems lately so she came to help. Hold on.” He heard her knock on the door. There were a few minutes of hurried talking and loud exclamations, and then she was back on the phone. “Okay, Willow is gonna teleport us to you so we can talk in person. Just tell us where you want us to zap to. This better be important, too, because teleporting makes me want to puke.”

A few minutes more of discussion determined that Headquarters was out—the Watchers had it warded. So Spike gave her the address of his flat and, with the promise to meet there in half an hour, they rang off. Malcolm dashed away to find his shoes, and then together they ran back to Spike’s place.

While they waited, Spike heated and drank some blood, and then he made tea for the two of them. Malcolm swept up the remains of the lamp. They were just finishing up when there was an odd _whoosh_ sound and the smell of ozone, and then two loud thumps. A round of gasps told Spike that the girls had arrived.

“Oh, Goddess!” Willow exclaimed, at the very same time that Buffy cried out his name.

Spike resisted the temptation to rub his face. Every minute he took to explain things was a minute they delayed going after Giles. “Yeah, I’m a right mess. Also can’t see worth shite. But that’s not the problem now, all right? Rupert’s chasing after the wankers that have been killing off your lot, and now he’s gone missing. We need to get to Budapest and get him back. Oh, and this is Malcolm. He’s a Watcher, but he’s all right.”

“Hello,” Malcolm said very quietly.

“Who are these people?” Buffy demanded, and Spike was pleased to hear the businesslike tone of her voice.

“Vis Legis. Secret society.” He quickly summarized everything that they’d learned about the group, while Buffy paced restlessly and Willow sat in one of his chairs. Malcolm seemed to be stuck in the corner of the room.

When he was through, Buffy stopped directly in front of him. He couldn’t see her, of course, but he could picture her with her hands on her hips and her mouth pursed and her head tilted a bit. “Okay. So now you want to explain why you’re all ‘Let’s rescue Giles,’ all of a sudden?”

He didn’t mind telling her the truth, but perhaps Giles wouldn’t want her to know about them. So Spike simply said, “He rescued me first.”

She reached out and almost, but not quite, touched his face. “Are you all right?”

“I will be when we get him back.”

She smelled of the lotion she put on her hands before bed, and the scrubby stuff she used on her face. They were clean, youthful scents. He wondered how she wore her hair nowadays, but didn’t put out his own hand to find out.

She stood there a few moments more, then walked away. He heard the scrape as she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, the slight _plop_ as she collapsed into it. “Give me a few to think,” she said.

Spike nodded. He felt at loose ends, just standing there, so he refilled the kettle and put it on. Willow came up behind him smelling of herbs and magic. “Sweetie?” she said in a near-whisper. “Did this happen to you when…in Sunnydale?”

“No. Nearly a year later.”

“And you haven’t healed?”

He shook his head while he took out another two mugs. “I’m managing. Rupert….” He swallowed. “Rupert helped.”

She patted his shoulder a bit awkwardly and then went to sit at the table near Buffy. Soon all four of them were there, sipping their Earl Grey and strategizing.

“Okay,” Buffy announced. “I’m gonna call Xander and have him gather everyone.”

“How many Slayers do you have?” Spike asked.

“About two dozen in Scotland with us now. The rest are sort of scattered. We’ve been trying to provide coverage everywhere, so there are sort of squadrons all over. Xander and the rest of the Scotland group are going to get on the next plane to Budapest. Will, you’re gonna teleport the two of us there directly.”

“And us?” asked Spike.

“Well, you….” Her voice trailed off.

“You’re not leaving me here! I’m not bloody useless. I know more about these Vis Legis tossers than you do, I can translate. I can still fight!”

“He can,” Malcolm butted in, speaking for the first time since he’d said hello. “I’ve seen him; he’s brilliant. And I’m going as well!”

Spike was certain that Buffy and Willow exchanged looks then. Buffy huffed. “Can you take all of us, Will?”

“Sure. I mean, I never transported a vampire before, but I suppose it’s the same, right?”

Spike stood. “Right, then. Let’s go.”

Red caught at his hand. “It’s almost dawn, Spike. It must be light already in Hungary.”

Spike swore and kicked at his chair.

Buffy stood. “Look. I need some time to talk to Xander and get stuff together, and Will, you should rest. All this shifting people around is hard on you, isn’t it? I could use a little more shut-eye myself. And, uh, clothes.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow.

“Pajamas. We’re in our pajamas, Spike.”

“I can get you some things when the shops open,” Malcolm offered.

With everything settled, at least for the moment, Mal headed back to Headquarters. Buffy rustled about in the kitchen, grumbling about the lack of human food, and nattering away on her mobile to Xander. “Help yourself to the bed,” Spike told Willow.

“You should rest, too.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“If you want, I can do a little hex. Just a tiny one. It’ll knock you out for a few hours. Dani—she was my girlfriend but we broke up but it wasn’t over magic because she’s a witch, too, only it turns out she’s not great with the keeping her hands out of other girls’ pants—she and I used to do this spell for each other all the time.”

Spike considered her offer. He was still leery about mojo, but he’d be the better in the evening after a decent kip. “Yeah, all right,” he finally said.

She followed him into the bedroom and waited while he kicked off his Docs. “I think the sofa opens to a bed,” he said. “There are extra linens in the cupboard.”

“You’ve gotten to be a pretty domestic sort of demon.”

“I expect so.” That didn’t bother him. “All right, Red. Lay it on me.”

She mumbled a few words at him, and before he could decipher the language he was fast asleep.

 

***

 

Two hours before sunset, everyone was awake. Mal had returned with clothing for the girls—they approved of his choices and Spike could almost hear the boy blush—and takeaway curry. Xander rang to tell them that he and the Slayer cadre had landed. He’d hired a bus and he’d meet them in front of  Hotel Gellért after sunset.

“Droopy Boy has become a useful sort,” Spike observed.

Buffy slapped at his arm. “He’s not droopy at all. He’s been working out, actually, and he’s got these muscles and, uh….”

Spike’s eyebrow went up. He wondered if the effect was the same with his filmy eyes. “You and Doughnut Boy?”

“Um…yeah. We were…it just kinda happened, and it was like…he was…uh….”

“It’s good, pet. I’m happy for you.” He meant it.

She sighed in relief. “Thanks. It’s a little weird, I know, but it feels right.” He could hear her toying with her plastic fork. “Um, Spike? Do you know about Angel? What happened to him?”

“Was there. Do you?”

“Yeah. I heard a while back. Nobody bothered to tell me you were there, too. Is that where you got…hurt?”

Spike nodded.

“When Angel got…. Was it bad?”

In a gentle voice, he said, “He was dusted quickly. Didn’t suffer. And he went out like he wanted to, didn’t he? Fighting the good fight and all that rot. I expect he’s finally got that redemption he was so on about.” Even as he said it, he knew that he believed it, and a small part of himself he hadn’t even known was wounded began to mend.

She sniffed and then stood. “It’s almost sunset in Budapest. Let’s go kick some Vis Legis butt.”

Spike had been slightly afraid that teleportation would be something like Illyria’s transdimensional horrors. Fortunately, this experience was much milder, although the moment they arrived, Malcolm ran to the railing along the sidewalk and vomited into the river. Spike couldn’t console him, though, as his skin was crawling with the combined gaze of twenty Slayers.

“Hi, Spike,” said a familiar voice.

“Harris.”

“Wow. You and I are like a walking ad for the benefits of protective eyewear.”

Spike snorted.

Buffy made quick introductions. Spike was fairly certain Mal was trying to hide behind him. Not that Spike could really blame him. When Buffy was done, Xander said, “Okay. Which way? ‘Cause people are kind of staring and we look like a really freaky tour group.”

“He was searching in one of the caves. That way,” Spike gestured.

Buffy took his arm. “Any idea which one?”

Spike lifted his face up and inhaled deeply. It was very hot out and humid, and the scent of the Danube was strong. He smelled cars and the perfume and shampoo of twenty girls, the myriad scents of the people who had passed this way in the last day, the sulfurous odor of the hot springs over which the hotel was built, the green things growing up the hill, the small furry creatures that scurried in the underbrush. But underneath it all there was just the faintest suggestion—only a hint—of whiskey and cigarettes and old paper.

Spike followed his nose and, like the world’s strangest parade, twenty-one Slayers, one witch, one Watcher-in-training, and one former Doughnut Boy followed him. They made their way up the street, no doubt engendering many strange looks from passersby, and then turned and started up the hill. The path twisted and turned a bit, and Spike wondered whether Giles had been lost or trying to put pursuers off his trail.

Xander was walking beside him, and after a time Spike couldn’t resist saying very quietly, “So, you and the Slayer, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah. I know you guys probably have some unresolved issues, but I really love her, Spike, and if you—“

“No need to threaten. You’re better for her than I ever was. Mazel tov.”

 “Really?”

“Really. Besides, I’ve…moved on.”

“Yeah, who’s the lucky girl?”

Spike smiled. Suddenly he didn’t care what Giles wanted. This was too much fun to pass up. “Not a girl, mate.”

“Oh, yeah. They like to be called women, I know. Or…is it a vamp? You’re not back with Drusilla, are you? ‘Cause I’d think with the whole soul thing you have going, that’d be awkward.”

“’S not Dru. Haven’t seen her for years. It’s a bloke, berk.”

“It’s a—Oh. A bloke.” The word sounded awful in his American accent. “I didn’t know…well, I guess maybe demons are kinda…flexible.”

Spike leered and hoped it wasn’t too dark for Xander to see. “You’ve no idea how flexible I can be.”

He heard Xander gulp. “Um…is it Malcolm?” Xander whispered.

“Nah. Too young. I’ve a taste for someone a bit more…seasoned.”

There was a very long silence, during which Spike could practically hear the gears in the boy’s head turning. And then, “Oh, God. You’re bonking _Giles_.”

“Actually, he’s bonking me. And he’s bloody good at it, too. Take the last time we were in bed. He was—“

“No! No no no no! I can’t hear you! Never never want to hear this!”

Spike laughed and then turned again as he followed the trail.

 They had to make their way through some fairly dense shrubbery, which kept hitting Spike in the face until he could feel little trickles of blood running down his neck. But he didn’t pause, because the scent was growing stronger as they left most other human smells behind.

Spike was brought to a stop when he nearly walked into a door. “What’s here?” he hissed.

Malcolm had a torch, which he shined ahead of them. “It’s…it looks like the front of a house. An old one. But it’s built right into the rock. I think someone must have lived in this cave.”

Spike reached for the knob. It was locked, naturally, so he kicked at the door and it splintered easily. He began to push inside, but Buffy stopped him. “Sharp wooden things, Spike. Let me go first, okay?”

Slightly reluctantly, he let her pass, but then he was right behind her, with the rest of the party trooping behind. They entered an echoing chamber that smelled strongly of damp and rot. “Holy shit,” Xander whispered.

“What?” Spike demanded.

Buffy answered. “There’s, like, a lot of doors in here.”

“Thirteen,” piped up a female voice he didn’t recognize.

“Yeah, thanks, Katya. Thirteen doors, and they all have these sort of symbols painted on them.”

“They’re Germanic runes,” said Malcolm. “They’re a spell. I think…yes. If you choose the wrong one, you die.”

“Right, then. I’m already dead, so I’ll give them a go.” Spike tried to stride forward, but Buffy grabbed him.

“Don’t be stupid! It could finally and forever kill you, or it could blast us all to pieces. Willow, do you know the right one?”

“No. Sorry. I could try a divining spell, but—“

“Oh, bugger this.” Spike marched forward, toward the strongest scent of Giles, and felt for a knob. It turned easily, and although he heard assorted sounds of unhappy anticipation behind him, nothing happened when he opened the door. “What?” he shouted.

“Steps going down, Spike,” said Mal.

They were only wide enough for two people to descend abreast. Buffy walked down at Spike’s side, and it was nice to be fighting with her again, although he wished it had been under better circumstances. He knew just how she’d look, with her muscles taut and her eyes scanning for danger. He still loved her, he realized. Not like he used to. But the same way he felt about Dru and, he had to admit, about Angel. She was somebody important to him, someone he cared about. Family. He laughed softly.

“What?” she whispered.

“Nothing. Just William rearing his poncy head.”

She didn’t answer that, and in any case a moment later they were at the bottom of the stairs. “Another door,” she whispered, although he didn’t know why. Together, the footsteps of their group sounded like an approaching herd of elephants.

He opened this door as well, and then nearly cried out when the scent of blood immediately hit him. Giles’s blood. But a second inhalation told him that there wasn’t much of it, so at least Giles hadn’t bled to death down here.

They entered another chamber, and this one sounded very large, with a high ceiling. The floor was littered with stalagmites and Spike had to take care not to fall over them. It was wonderfully cool down here, a pleasant change from the oppressive heat outside. Spike had the sense that this place had been used, and perhaps even lived in, since long before he was born. He could smell old candle wax and smoke, rotted wood and—

“Bones!” someone said.

And Xander exclaimed, “Holy sepulcher, Batman!”

Malcolm spoke, close to Spike’s side. “There are dozens of skeletons here. Hundreds, perhaps. Stacked and crowded around the edges.”

Spike walked until his boot crunched into one of them, then he reached for a bone—a rib, as it turned out—and sniffed it. “It’s human, but old. They all are. Perhaps this is where those wankers keep their dead.”

“Eww,” intoned several of the Slayers.

Spike could smell Giles quite strongly here, and it was maddening. Giles had walked around quite a bit, perhaps looking for those magic things. Spike made his way to where the blood scent was strongest. “He was hurt here.”

Buffy came to his side. “There’s a little blood on the ground but not much. And it’s all dried.”

They continued to poke about for a bit, none of them finding anything interesting, and then Spike froze. “We have company,” he said. Everybody tensed. A few seconds later a door at the far end of the chamber from the stair crashed open, and people started pouring in. Armed people. Spike could smell the steel blades.

Immediately, the fighting began.

Spike wasn’t sure how many people they were battling against. It sounded like a fairly even match to him. However many they were, they clearly hadn’t been expecting a group of Slayers. Spike realized quickly that in the dim and flickering light that was available in the cave, most of the humans could see little better than he could, and that gave him a true advantage. He switched to his demon face, hoped very fervently that the Slayers would all remember they were fighting on the same side as the vampire this time, and began to kill.

It had been a long time since Spike had sunk his teeth into a human throat—just that poor bloke Giles had had him turn, and that was it for ages—and it was brilliant. His demonic nature reveled in the chance to commit mayhem without the soul’s interference, and the only care he had to take was not to attack one of his allies. But that wasn’t a major problem, and there were plenty of enemies to murder, until his face and hands and the entire front of his body were coated in blood, and the cave reeked of death.

“Jesus Christ,” said a soft English voice, and Spike realized the chamber had gone quiet.

“All sorted?” he asked.

“All pretty much hamburgered, Spike. It looks like a Quentin Tarantino flick in here.” Xander sounded admiring rather than horrified, and Spike wondered just how much the boy had changed.

“Malcolm?” Spike called. “You all right?”

“Yes. I…Jesus Christ.”

Willow said, “It’s okay if you barf. I did the first couple times things got gory and well, Spike’s kinda looking pretty scary right now.”

“I…I killed people.”

“’S loads better than the reverse, mate, believe me.” Spike shifted back to his human face, knowing that wouldn’t improve his looks much.

A quick survey revealed that most of their party were pretty unscathed. There were cuts and bruises, of course, but for the most part nothing serious. One girl had been run through in the chest, though, and Spike could tell her lung had been punctured. A few of the others performed efficient first aid, and then four of them carried her up the stairs, planning to take her to hospital straight away. There was still no sign of Giles, or, for that matter, of the things he’d been searching for.

Spike and Buffy led the way through the door their attackers had come from. It led to a stone corridor and, at the end of that, a series of small rooms furnished with cots and wooden chests. “Man, I’d sleep down here too,” Xander said. “AC is not a big thing in central Europe.” The rooms were all empty.

All, that is, except the last one, which was larger, and smelled like it had been used as a kitchen of some sort. A single man was in the kitchen, his heart beating a violent tattoo inside his chest. He shouted something hysterically in Hungarian, but Spike’s vocabulary was limited to swearing and ordering drinks, so he didn’t understand. “English, mate, before I rip your head off.”

“Please don’t kill me! Please!”

“That’s better. Why weren’t you fighting with the others?”

Buffy poked him in the side. “He has a cast on one leg.”

“Then this is your lucky day,” Spike said and walked closer, hoping the bloke was getting a good view of the mess on Spike’s face and body. “You play nice and you get to be the sole survivor. Now, where’s the English bloke that was here yesterday?”

The man’s heart sped even more, and Spike knew whatever he was about to say was a lie. “I don’t know! They take him away. I can’t even get up stairs.”

Spike shifted his face again and the man squealed and tried to scramble away. He fell on the floor and began to cry. “I’ll give you one more chance, “ Spike snarled. “Then I’m going to turn you into one of my kind, and that will give these girls the chance to play with you for a good long time. Do you know how much punishment a vampire can take and still survive? I do.” He bent down a bit, letting the man have a good, long look at his ravaged face.

“In there! He is in there!”

“Mal?” Spike asked.

“He’s pointing at a door off to one side.”

A few of the Slayers moved closer to keep an eye on the sobbing man, while Buffy led Spike and the others to the door. Spike reached out for the knob, which turned easily in his hand. He wrenched the door open.

 “Spike!” Giles exclaimed and Spike lunged forward, but Buffy’s strong arms hauled him back.

“Don’t,” she murmured. “He’s not alone.”

“No, he’s not,” said an unfamiliar male voice.

Spike ignored him. “Rupert? Are you hurt?”

“Not seriously. Spike, what are you doing here?”

“What the bloody hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m saving your arse.”

“Not very successfully,” said the bloke. He was English, Spike thought.

Malcolm crowded close to Spike and then in such a low voice Spike had to strain to hear it, said, “There are two of them. They have Mr. Giles tied to a chair and the one on the right’s holding a knife to Mr. Giles’s throat.”

Spike felt a roar growing in his chest—these wankers were threatening _his_ Rupert—but just barely managed to quell it. “Get away from him.”

“No. We’re leaving with him and if you stay far away we might let him go.”

“Don’t let them leave,” Giles said. “They have the things I was searching for.”

“Shut up!” the man shouted, and Giles _oofed_ as someone hit or kicked him.

That was more than Spike could bear. “Mal? Left,” he said, and rushed forward.

He couldn’t see where he was going—the chamber was too dark for him to see even vague blurs—but he could hear three sets of lungs working, three hearts beating, and he aimed for the one farthest to his right. A vampire can move very quickly, and he could only hope he was fast enough to save Giles’s neck.

Spike collided with someone. The person fell to the ground and Spike fell on top of him. Spike barely felt the blade that was thrust into the side of his chest as he wrapped his hands around his opponent’s neck and twisted. The body beneath him instantly went very still.

By the time he stood up again, Malcolm had done something bloody and fatal to the other bloke, and Buffy and Xander had Giles nearly untied. Spike pushed Xander out of the way and tore the last of the ropes free. “All you all right?” he asked anxiously.

“I’m fine,” Giles said. He stood and took Spike into his arms, clearly not caring whether he was making a spectacle of himself. He nuzzled against Spike’s cheek. “My dear, dear boy.”

 

***

 

The staff at the hotel must have been shocked by the sight of the large group that came marching into the lobby, most of them bloody and banged up. Perhaps they just chalked it up to barmy Englishmen and Americans. In any case, they were able to find rooms for everyone. The Slayers had to double up, and Xander and Buffy didn’t mind sharing a room. Malcolm and Willow were willing to be temporary roommates as well. Most of them headed immediately to their rooms to wash up and get some sleep, but the Scoobies and Malcolm lingered.

“You probably want to catch up,” Spike said, feeling a bit awkward. “I’ll go and—“

“No,” Giles said, and caught at his hand. “Buffy, I should very much like to talk with you, and Willow, we can discuss what to do with the things we took from Vis Legis. And Malcolm, I’m going to want to congratulate you later on a job very nicely done. But right now Spike needs tending to and I’m exhausted.”

Buffy said, “You and Spike are all…couply, huh?”

“I love him,” Giles said simply, and Spike momentarily forgot how to breathe.

“That’s…really weird. But also…I don’t know. Kind of….”

“Sweet,” Willow interrupted. “It’s really sweet.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah.” She came very close and kissed Giles and then, to Spike’s surprise, kissed him as well, a warm little press of lips to his cheek. “I want to hear all the gory details later, you hear?”

Up in their small room, Giles pulled off Spike’s shirt and tutted over the deep gash in his chest, even though it was already healing. “You need to feed,” he said.

Spike laughed. “Love, I’ve fed plenty tonight, believe me. But you’re hurt. You need to go--”

“I’m fine, Spike. Nothing but another bash on the head. You got there just in time—they were planning to try to get information out of me tonight.”

Spike heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

Giles dabbed at Spike’s wound with a towel. “You could have been—“

“What? Killed? Done that so many times I’ve lost count. I’d do it again for you, even if it really meant final death.”

Giles helped him off with his boots and jeans. Spike could have stripped by himself, of course, but it was lovely to have Giles do it for him. For Giles to take care of him, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. When Spike was bare, Giles took off his own clothing and, heedless of the filthy state they were both in, pulled Spike into the bed with him. They pulled the covers over themselves and Giles curled around Spike, allowing his heat to seep into Spike’s skin, all the way through to his bones.

“I owe you a punishment for disobeying my orders and coming to Budapest, but I shall have to see to that when I’m rested.”

“I’ll make certain you do,” said Spike, wiggling his arse happily against Giles.

Giles kissed his temple. “You are a remarkable man.”

Spike had gone through hell and worse and back. He’d lost those he’d cared about, he’d faced decades of loneliness. His soul still scoured him for the many wrongs he’d done. He was scarred and blind and half-gelded. And at this moment, none of that mattered. He was happy. He knew he could still fight. It looked like Giles would reconcile with Buffy, and Buffy was not repulsed by Spike as he was now. He was being held tightly by someone who loved him. He might never regain his sight and he knew there would surely be troubles ahead, but now he trusted that somehow, he and his family would overcome them.

 

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_Click here for the sequel, [Faith](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=Faith&filter=all). 

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